THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


THE  TALE  OF 
TRIONA 


BY  THE  SAME  A UTHOR 

IDOLS 

JAFFERY 

VIVIETTE 

SEPTIMUS 

DERELICTS 

THE   USURPER 

STELLA   MARIS 

WHERE  LOVE  IS 

THE  ROUGH  ROAD 

THE     MOUNTEBANK 

THE    RED    PLANET 

THE     WHITE      DOVE 

F.AR-AWAY     STORIES 

SIMON       THE       JESTER 

A    STUDY    IN    SHADOWS 

A    CHRISTMAS   MYSTERY 

THE     WONDERFUL     YEAR 

THE    HOUSE   OF   BALTAZAR 

THE       FORTUNATE       YOUTH 

THE     BELOVED    VAGABOND 

AT     THE    GATE    OF     SAMARIA 

THE      GLORY     OF     CLEMENTINA 

THE    MORALS   OF    MARCUS   ORDEYNE 

THE  DEMAGOGUE  AND  LADY  PHAYRE 

THE  JOYOUS  ADVENTURES  OF  ARISTIDE  PUJOL 


THE  TALE  OF 
TRIONA 


BY 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 

Author  of  "THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND,"  "THE  MORALS  OF 
MARCUS  ORDEYNE,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


OOPTBIGHT,   1922 

BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


FEINTED  IN  TT.  S.  A. 


THE  TALE  OF 
TRIONA 


FK 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 


CHAPTER  I 

OLIVIA  GALE  leaned  back  in  her  chair  at  the 
end  of  the  dining-room  table,  and  looked  first 
at  the  elderly  gentleman  on  her  right,  and  then 
at  the  elderly  gentleman  on  her  left. 

"You're  both  of  you  as  kind  as  can  be,  and  I'm  more 
than  grateful  for  all  you've  done;  but  I  do  wish  you'd 
see  that  it's  no  use  arguing.  It  only  hurts  and  makes 
us  tired.  Do  help  yourself,  Mr.  Trivett.  And — another 
cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Fenmarch?" 

Mr.  Fenmarch,  on  her  left,  passed  his  cup  with  a  sigh. 
He  was  a  dusty,  greyish  man,  his  face  covered  with  an 
indeterminate  growth  of  thin  short  hair.  His  eyes  were 
of  a  dull,  unspeculative  blue. 

"As  your  solicitor,  my  dear  Olivia,"  said  he,  "I  can 
only  obey  instructions.  As  the  friend  of  your  family, 
I  venture  to  give  you  advice." 

"Why  the  deuce  your  father  didn't  tie  you  up  in  a 
trusteeship  till  you  were  twenty-five,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Mr.  Trivett  on  her  right,  helping  himself  to  whisky 
and  soda — the  table,  covered  with  a  green  baize  cloth, 
was  littered  with  papers  and  afternoon  refreshments. 

"Why  the  dickens "  he  began  again  after  a  sizzling 

gulp. 

"Yes,   it's   most  unfortunate,"  said   Mr.   Fenmarch, 

i 

939847 


2  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

cutting  off  his  friend's  period.  "And  what  you  are  going 
to  do  with  yourself,  all  alone  in  the  world,  with  this 
enormous  amount  of  liquid  money  is  more  than  I  can 
imagine." 

Olivia  smiled  and  tapped  the  blue-veined  hand  that 
set  down  his  teacup. 

"Of  course  you  can't.  If  imagination  ran  away  with 
a  solicitor,  it  would  land  him  in  the  workhouse." 

"That's  where  it  will  land  you,  Olivia,"  said  Mr.  Triv- 
ett.  "Common  sense  is  the  better  mount." 

"That's  rather  neat,"  she  said. 

"If  it  wasn't,  I  wouldn't  have  said  it,"  retorted  Mr. 
Trivett,  sinking  his  red  jowls  into  his  collar,  which  made 
them  redder  than  before. 

"You're  so  quick  and  clever,"  said  Olivia,  "that  I  can't 
understand  why  you  won't  see  things  from  my  point  of 
view." 

"You've  got  to  learn  that  a  man  of  experience  can't 
take  the  view  of  a  wrong-headed  young  woman." 

Mr.  Trivett  emphasized  the  asperity  of  his  tone  by 
a  thump  of  his  palm  on  the  table. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  genuinely  angry.  He  was 
the  senior  partner  in  Trivett  and  Gale,  Auctioneers  and 
Estate  Agents,  in  the  comfortable  little  Shropshire  town 
of  Medlow;  or  rather  the  only  surviving  partner,  for 
Gale,  Olivia's  father,  and  his  two  sons  had  one  after  the 
other  been  wiped  out  in  a  recent  world  accident.  Olivia's 
decision,  inspired  from  no  other  fount  he  could  think  of 
than  lunacy,  involved  the  withdrawl  of  considerable 
capital  from  the  business.  This,  of  course,  being  an 
honourable  man,  he  could  not  dispute;  but  here  were  peace 
and  reconstruction  and  inflated  prices,  and  heaven  knew 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  3 

how  much  percentage  on  the  middleman's  capital,  and 
here  was  this  inexperienced  girl  throwing  away  a  safe 
income  and  clamouring  for  a  settlement  in  full.  They 
had  argued  and  argued.  It  may  be  stated  here  that 
Mr.  Trivett  was  the  Executor  of  her  father's  estate, 
which  made  his  position  the  more  delicate  and  exas- 
perating. 

And  now  Mr.  Trivett's  exasperation  reached  the  table- 
thumping  point. 

Olivia  smiled  wearily. 

"It's  such  a  pity." 

"What's  a  pity?" 

"Oh,  everything.  One  thing  is  that  there's  no  more 
gold.  Of  course,  I  know  you  can't  understand.  But 
that's  your  fault,  not  mine.  I  should  have  liked  to  real- 
ize all  that  I've  got  in  sovereigns.  Do  you  think  they'd 
fill  a  bath?  Have  you  ever  thought  how  lovely  it  would 
be  to  wallow  in  a  bath  of  sovereigns?  Treasury  notes 
are  not  the  same  thing.  They're  either  very  dirty  and 
smell  of  plumbers,  or  very  new  and  smell  of  rancid  oil. 
Gold  is  the  real  basis  of  Romance." 

He  put  her  down  for  a  mere  female  fool,  and  replied 
practically: 

"We'll  not  see  a  gold  coin  in  England  again  for  the 
next  fifty  years." 

"Well,  well,"  she  said;  "anyhow,  there's  still  some 
romance  in  mounting  the  deadly  breech  of  the  bank 
counter  with  a  drawn  checque  in  one's  hand." 

"I'm  afraid,  my  dear  Olivia,"  said  Mr.  Fenmarch 
mildly,  "I  don't  quite  see  what  we're  talking  about." 

"Why,  we've  discussed  it  every  day  for  the  last  three 
months,"  cried  Olivia,  "and  now  this  is  the  very  last  end 


4  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

of  everything.  A  final  settlement,  as  you  call  it!  That's 
what  you  two  dears  have  come  for,  isn't  it?" 

"Unfortunately,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Fenmarch. 

"Then  it's  all  so  simple.  You've  shown  me  this" — 
she  picked  up  a  foolscap  document  and  dropped  it — 
"the  full  statement  of  account  of  my  father's  estate,  and 
I  approve — I  being  the  only  person  concerned.  You've 
got  to  give  me  one  last  cheque  for  that  amount" — she 
tapped  the  document — "and  I  give  you  my  receipt, 
signed  over  a  penny  stamp — you'll  have  to  stand  me  a 
penny  stamp,  for  I've  only  got  three-halfpenny  ones  in 
the  house — and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

"My  clerk  made  out  the  receipt  and  put  the  penny 
stamp  on,"  said  Mr.  Fenmarch,  untroubled  by  her  smile. 
"Here  it  is." 

"Solicitors'  clerks  seem  to  think  of  everything,"  said 
Olivia.  "Fancy  his  remembering  the  penny  stamp!" 

"It's  charged  up  against  you,  in  Fenmarch's  bill — item 
'sundries,' "  remarked  Mr.  Trivett,  pointing  a  fat  fore- 
finger. 

"Why,  naturally.  Why  should  Mr.  Fenmarch  shower 
pennies  on  me?  It's  the  delicate  thoughtfulness  that  I 
admire.  I  hope  you'll  raise  that  young  man's  salary." 

Mr.  Fenmarch  looked  pained,  like  a  horse  to  whom  one 
had  offered  wooden  oats,  and  swung  his  head  away.  Mr. 
Trivett  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  before  he  spoke 
finished  his  whisky  and  soda. 

"My  dear  Olivia,"  said  he,  "I'm  sorry  to  see  you  so 
flippant.  You've  disappointed  me  and  Mrs.  Trivett 
who've  known  you  since  you  were  born,  more  than  I  can 
say.  Until  your  poor  mother  died — God  bless  her — we 
thought  you  the  most  capable,  level-headed  young  woman 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  5 

in  this  town.  But  for  the  last  three  months — you'll  for- 
give my  freedom  in  saying  so — you  have  shown  yourself 
to  be  quite  impossible." 

He  paused,  angry.  Olivia  smiled  and  drummed  on  the 
table. 

"Have  some  more  whisky." 

"No,  I  won't,"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice.  "Whisky's  too 
expensive  to  ladle  out  in  that  offhand  fashion.  It's  a 
luxury,  as  you'll  jolly  well  soon  discover.  I'm  talking  for 
your  good,  Olivia.  That's  why  Fenmarch  and  I  are  here. 
Two  minutes  will  wind  up  the  business.  But  we  have 
your  interests  at  heart,  my  girl,  and  we  want  to  make  a 
last  appeal." 

She  covered  with  hers  the  back  of  his  red-glazed  hand 
and  spoke  in  a  softened  voice: — 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know.  I've  said  already  that  you  and 
Mr.  Fenmarch  were  dears.  But  what  would  you  have 
me  do?  I'm  twenty-three.  Alone  in  the  world." 

"You  have  your  uncle  and  aunt  at  Clapham,"  said  Mr. 
Trivett. 

"I've  also  some  sort  of  relations  in  the  monkey  cage 
at  the  Zoo,"  said  Olivia. 

The  repartee  to  the  effect  that  it  was  the  fittest  home 
for  her  only  occurring  to  Mr.  Trivett  when  he  was  getting 
into  bed  that  night,  he  merely  stared  at  her  gaspingly. 
She  continued: 

"I'm  absolutely  alone  in  the  world.  Do  you  think  it 
reasonable  for  me  to  stay  in  this  dull  old  house,  in  this 
mouldering  old  town,  where  one  never  sees  a  man  from 
one  year's  end  to  another,  living  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
on  the  few  hundreds  a  year  which  I  could  get  if  my  cap- 
ital were  properly  invested?" 


6  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"We  don't  grant  your  premises,  Olivia,"  said  Mr.  Fen- 
march.  "  The  Towers'  may  be  old,  but  it  is  not  dull. 
Medlow  is  not  mouldering,  but  singularly  progressive, 
and  the  place  seems  to — to  pullulate  with  young  men.  So 
I  think  our  advice  to  you  is  eminently  reasonable." 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Olivia.  "That's  where  all  the 
trouble  comes  in.  Our  ideas  of  dullness,  mouldering  and 
pullu — what  you  call  it;  don't  correspond.  Mother  was 
very  fond  of  a  story  of  Sydney  Smith.  Perhaps  she  told 
you.  He  was  walking  one  day  with  a  friend  through  the 
slums  and  came  across  two  women  quarrelling  across 
the  street,  through  opposite  windows.  And  Sydney  Smith 
said:  They'll  never  come  to  an  agreement,  because  they 
are  arguing  from  different  premises.' ' 

There  was  a  silence. 

"I'll  have  a  drop  more  whisky,"  said  Mr.  Trivett. 

"I  think  I  see  the  point  of  the  remark,"  said  Mr.  Fen- 
march  greyly.  "It  was  a  play  on  the  two  meanings  of 
the  word." 

"That  was  what  my  mother  gave  me  to  understand," 
said  Olivia. 

Then,  after  another  spell  of  chill  silence,  she  cried, 
her  nerves  on  edge: 

"Do  let  us  come  to  the  end  of  it! " 

"We  will,"  said  Mr.  Trivett  impressively.  "But  not 
before  I've  made  a  few  remarks  in  protest,  with  Fen- 
march  as  witness.  I'm  sorry  there's  not  another  wit- 
ness  " 

"Oh,  I'll  get  one!"  cried  Olivia.  "Myra— the  faithful 
Myra." 

"Myra's  a  servant,  also  a  fool;  and  you've  got  her  under 
your  thumb,"  said  Mr.  Trivett. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  7 

"Well,  well,"  said  Olivia,  "we'll  give  Myra  a  miss. 
But  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say — and  the  kind  heart 
that  makes  you  say  it." 

A  touch  of  real  tenderness  crept  into  her  fine  dark 
eyes  and  almost  softened  Mr.  Trivett.  She  looked  so 
young,  so  slender,  so  immature  in  her  simple  mourning. 
Her  soft  black  hair  clustered  over  her  forehead  in  a 
manner  which  he  felt  was  inconsistent  with  a  woman  fight- 
ing her  way  alone  in  the  world.  She  hadn't  a  bit  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks;  wanted  feeding  up,  he  thought.  She 
was  capable  enough  in  her  own  sphere,  the  management 
of  her  house,  the  care  of  a  bedridden  mother,  the  appreci- 
ation of  legal  technicalities.  Until  she  had  got  this  bee 
in  her  bonnet  he  had  admired  her  prodigiously;  though, 
with  the  reserve  which  every  Englishman  makes  in  his 
admiration,  he  deplored  the  shrewdness  of  her  tongue. 
But  this  idea  of  hers,  to  realize  all  her  money  in  hard 
cash  at  the  bank  and  go  off  into  unknown  perils  was 
preposterous.  She  was  not  fit  for  it.  You  could  take 
her  by  the  neck  in  one  hand  and  by  the  waist  in  another 
and  break  her  to  bits.  .  .  .  He  was  a  good,  honest  man 
with  fatherly  instincts  developed  by  the  possession  of 
daughters  of  his  own,  strapping  red-cheeked  girls,  who 
had  stayed  soberly  at  home  until  the  right  young  man 
had  come  along  and  carried  them  off  to  modest  homes  of 
unimpeachable  respectability.  So  when  he  met  the 
tenderness  in  Olivia's  eyes  he  mitigated  the  asperities  of 
his  projected  discourse  and  preached  her  a  very  human 
little  sermon.  While  he  spoke,  Mr.  Fenmarch  nodded  his 
unhumorous  head  and  stroked  the  straggling  grey  hairs 
on  his  cheek.  When  he  had  ended,  Mr.  Fenmarch  sec- 
onded, as  it  were,  the  resolution. 


8  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Then  Olivia  thanked  them  prettily,  promised  to  avoid 
extravagance,  and,  in  case  of  difficulty,  to  come  to  them 
for  advice.  The  final  cheque  was  passed  over,  the  final 
receipt  signed  across  the  penny  stamp  provided  with 
such  forethought,  and  Olivia  Gale  entered  into  uncon- 
trolled possession  of  her  fortune. 

The  men  rose  to  take  their  leave.  Olivia  held  the  hand 
of  the  burly  red-faced  man  who  had  been  her  father's 
partner  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  know,  if  you  could  have  your  way,  you  would  give 
me  a  good  hiding." 

He  laughed  grimly.  "Not  the  least  doubt  of  it."  Then 
he  patted  her  roughly  on  the  shoulder. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Fenmarch?" 

He  regarded  her  drearily.  "After  a  long  experience 
in  my  profession,  Olivia,  I  have  come  to  one  conclusion 
— clients  are  a  mistake.  Good-bye." 

Left  alone,  Olivia  stood  for  a  moment  wondering 
whether,  after  all,  the  dusty  lawyer  had  a  jaded  sense  of 
humour.  Then  she  turned  and  caught  up  the  cheque 
and  sketched  a  few  triumphant  dancing  steps.  Suddenly, 
holding  it  in  her  hand,  she  rushed  out  into  the  hall,  where 
the  men  were  putting  on  their  overcoats. 

"We've  forgotten  the  most  important  thing,  Mr. 
Trivett.  You  wrote  me  something  about  an  offer  for 
the  house." 

"An  enquiry — not  an  offer,"  replied  Mr.  Trivett.  "Yes. 

I  forgot  to  mention  it.  A  Major  somebody.  Wait " 

He  lugged  out  a  fat  pocket-book  which  he  consulted. 
"That's  it.  Major  Olifant.  Coming  down  here  to-mor- 
row to  look  over  it.  Appointment  at  twelve,  if  that  suits 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  9 

you.  Unfortunately,  I've  an  engagement  and  can't  show 
him  round.  But  I'll  send  Perkins,  if  you  like." 

"If  the  Major  wants  to  eat  me,  he'll  eat  up  poor  little 
Mr.  Perkins,  too,"  said  Olivia.  "So  don't  worry." 

She  waited  until  Myra,  the  maid,  had  helped  them  into 
their  overcoats  and  opened  the  front  door.  After  final 
leavetakings,  they  were  gone.  Olivia  put  up  her  hands, 
one  of  them  still  holding  the  cheque,  on  Myra's  gaunt 
shoulders  and  shook  her  and  laughed. 

•'I've  beaten  them  at  last.  I  knew  I  should.  Now  you 
and  I  are  going  to  have  the  devil's  own  time." 

"We'll  have,  Miss  Olivia,"  said  Myra,  withdrawing 
like  a  wooden  automaton  from  the  embrace,  "the  time 
we'll  be  deserving." 

Myra  was  long,  lean,  and  angular,  dressed  precisely 
in  parlourmaid's  black;  but  the  absence  of  cap  on  her 
faultlessly  neat  iron  grey  hair  and  the  black  apron  sug- 
gested a  cross  between  the  housekeeper  and  personal 
maid.  She  shared,  with  a  cook  and  a  vague,  print- 
attired  help,  the  whole  service  of  the  house.  The  fact 
of  Myra  had  been  one  of  the  earliest  implanted  in  the 
consciousness  of  Olivia's  awakening  childhood.  Myra 
was  there,  perdurable  as  father  and  mother,  as  Polly,  the 
parrot,  whose  p'Drat  the  child"  of  that  morning  was  the 
same  echo  of  Myra's  voice,  as  it  was  when,  at  the  age 
of  two,  she  began  to  interpret  the  bird's  articulate  speech. 
And,  as  far  as  she  could  remember,  Myra  had  always 
been  the  same.  Age  had  not  withered  her,  nor  had  cus- 
tom staled  her  infinite  invariability.  She  had  been 
withered  since  the  beginning  of  time,  and  she  had  been 
as  unchanging  in  aspect  and  flavour  as  Olivia's  life-long 


10  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

breakfast  egg.  Myra's  origins  were  hidden  in  mystery. 
A  family  legend  declared  her  a  foundling.  She  had  come 
as  a  girl  from  Essex,  recommended  by  a  friend,  long 
since  dead,  of  Mrs.  Gale.  She  never  spoke  of  father, 
mother,  sisters,  and  brothers;  but  every  year,  when  she 
took  her  holiday,  she  was  presumed  to  return  to  her  native 
county.  With  that  exception  she  seemed  to  have  far 
less  of  a  private  life  than  the  household  cat.  It  never 
occurred  to  Olivia  that  she  could  possibly  lead  an  inde- 
pendent existence.  Her  age  was  about  forty-five. 

"They  think  I'm  either  mad  or  immoral,"  said  Olivia. 
"Thank  God,  they're  not  religious,  or  they'd  be  holding 
prayer  meetings  over  me." 

"They  might  do  worse,"  replied  Myra. 

The  girl  laughed.  "So  you  disapprove,  too,  do  you? 
Well,  you'll  have  to  get  over  it." 

"I've  got  over  many  things — one  more  or  less  don't 
matter.  And  if  I  were  you,  Miss,  I  wouldn't  stand  in  this 
draughty  hall." 

"All  that  I'm  thinking  of,"  said  Olivia,  in  high  good 
humour,  "is  that,  with  you  as  duenna,  I  shall  look  too 
respectable.  No  one  will  believe  it  possible  for  any  one 
except  an  adventuress." 

"That's  what  I  gather  you're  going  to  be,"  said  Myra. 
If  she  had  put  any  sting  into  her  words  it  would  have 
been  a  retort.  But  no  one  knew  what  emotions  guided 
Myra's  speech.  With  the  same  tonelessness  she  would 
have  proclaimed  the  house  to  be  on  fire,  or  dinner  to  be 
ready,  or  the  day  to  be  fine. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  like  the  prospect,  Myra,  you 
needn't  come,"  said  Olivia.  "I'll  easily  find  something 
fluffy  in  short  skirts  and  silk  stockings  to  do  for  me." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  11 

"We're  wasting  gas,  Miss,"  said  Myra,  pulling  the 
little  chain  of  the  bye-pass  and  thereby  plunging  the  hall 
in  darkness. 

"Oh,  bother  you!"  cried  Olivia,  stumbling  into  the 
passage  and  knocking  against  the  parrot's  cage  outside 
the  dining-room  door,  and  Polly  shrieked  out: 

"Drat  the  child!     Drat  the  child!" 

Before  entering  the  dining-room  she  aimed  a  Parthian 
shot  at  Myra. 

"I  suppose  you  agree  with  the  little  beast.  Well,  the 
two  of  you'll  have  to  look  after  each  other,  and  I  wish 
you  joy." 

She  cleared  the  dining-room  table  of  the  tea  things  and 
the  whisky  and  glasses  and  the  superfluous  papers,  and 
opened  the  window  to  let  out  the  smell  of  Mr.  Trivett's 
strong  cigar,  and  crossed  the  passage  to  the  drawing- 
room  opposite,  where  a  small  fire  was  still  burning.  And 
there,  in  spite  of  the  exultation  of  her  triumph  over  Mr. 
Trivett  and  Mr.  Fenmarch,  she  suddenly  felt  very  dread- 
fully alone;  also  just  a  whit  frightened.  The  precious 
cheque,  symbol  of  independence,  which  she  had  taken  up, 
laid  down,  taken  up  again,  during  her  little  household 
duties,  fell  to  the  ground  as  she  lay  in  the  armchair  by 
the  fireside. 

Was  her  victory,  and  all  it  implied,  that  of  a  reasonable 
being  and  a  decent  girl,  or  that  of  a  little  fool  and  a  hussy? 

Perhaps  the  mother  whom  she  worshipped  and  to  whom 
she  had  devotedly  sacrificed  the  last  four  years  of  her 
young  life  was  the  inspiration  of  her  revolt.  For  her 
mother  had  been  a  highly  bred  woman,  of  a  proud  old 
Anglo-Indian  family,  all  Generals  and  Colonels  and  Sirs 
and  Ladies,  whose  names  had  been  involved  in  the  history 


12  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

of  British  India  for  generations;  and  when  she  threw  the 
Anglo-Indian  family  halo  over  the  windmills  and  married 
young  Stephen  Gale,  who  used  to  stand  in  the  market- 
place of  Medlow  and  bawl  out  the  bidding  for  pigs  and 
sheep,  the  family  turned  her  down  with  the  Anglo-Indian 
thoroughness  that  had  compelled  her  mother  to  lose  her 
life  in  a  plague-stricken  district  and  her  father  to  lose 
his  on  the  North- West  Frontier.  The  family  argument 
was  simple.  When  you — or  everything  mattering  that 
means  you — have  ruled  provinces  and  commanded  armies 
and  been  Sahibs  from  the  beginning  of  Anglo-Indian 
time,  you  can't  go  and  marry  a  man  who  sells  pigs  at  auc- 
tion, and  remain  alive.  None  of  the  family  deigned  to 
gauge  the  personal  value  of  the  pig-seller.  The  Anglo- 
Brahmin  lost  caste.  It  is  true  that,  afterwards,  patroniz- 
ing efforts  were  made  by  Brahminical  uncles  and  aunts 
and  cousins  to  bridge  over  the  impassable  gulf;  but  Mrs. 
Gale,  very  much  in  love  with  her  pig-selling  husband, 
snapped  her  fingers  at  them  and  told  them,  in  individually 
opposite  terms,  to  go  hang. 

It  was  a  love  match  right  enough.  And  a  love  match 
it  remained  to  the  very  end  of  all  things;  after  she  had 
borne  him  two  sons  and  a  daughter;  all  through  the 
young  lives  of  the  children;  up  to  the  day  when  the  tele- 
gram came  announcing  the  death  of  their  elder  son — the 
younger  had  been  killed  in  the  curious  world  accident  a 
month  or  so  before — and  Stephen  Gale  stood  by  her  bed- 
side— she  had  even  then  succumbed  to  her  incurable 
malady — and  said,  shaken  with  an  emotion  to  which  one 
does  not  refer  nowadays: 

"Mary,  my  dear,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

And  she,  the  blood  in  her  speaking — the  blood  that  had 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  13 

given  itself  at  Agra,  Lucknow,  Khandahar,  Chitral — re- 
plied: 

"Go,  dear." 

Olivia,  sitting  by,  gripped  her  young  hands  in  mingled 
horror  and  grief  and  passionate  wonder.  And  Stephen 
Gale,  just  fifty,  went  out  to  avenge  his  sons  and  do  what 
was  right  in  his  wife's  eyes — for  his  wife  was  his  country 
incarnate,  her  voice,  being  England's  voice.  A  love  match 
it  was  and  a  love  match  it  remained  while  he  stuck  it 
for  two  or  three  years — an  elderly  man  at  an  inglorious 
Base,  until  he  died  of  pneumonia — over  there. 

Mrs.  Gale  had  lingered  for  a  year,  and,  close  as  their 
relations  had  been  all  Olivia's  life,  they  grew  infinitely 
closer  during  this  period  of  bereavement.  It  was  only 
then  that  the  mother  gave  delicate  expression  to  the  nos- 
talgia of  half  a  lifetime,  the  longing  for  her  own  kind,  and 
the  ways  and  thoughts  and  imponderable  principles  of 
her  own  caste.  And,  imperceptibly,  Olivia's  eyes  were 
opened  to  the  essential  differences  between  her  mother 
and  the  social  circle  into  which  she  had  married.  Olivia, 
ever  since  her  shrewd  child's  mind  began  to  appreciate 
values,  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  Trivetts  and  the 
Gales  were  not  accounted  as  gentlefolk  in  the  town.  She 
early  became  aware  of  the  socially  divided  line  across 
which  she  could  not  pass  so  as  to  enter  Blair  Park,  the 
high-class  girls'  school  on  the  hill,  but  narrowed  her  to 
Landsdowne  House,  where  the  daughters  of  the  trades- 
people received  their  education.  And  when  the  two 
crocodiles  happened  to  pass  each  other  on  country  walks 
she  hated  the  smug,  stuckup  Blair  Park  girls  with  their 
pretty  blue  and  white  ribbons  round  their  straw  hats,  and 
hated  her  red  ribbon  with  "LH"  embroidered  on  it,  as  a 


14  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

badge  of  servitude.  When  she  grew  up  she  accepted 
countless  other  social  facts  as  immutable  conditions  of 
existence.  Mortals  were  divided  by  her  unquestioning 
father  into  three  categories — "the  swells,"  "homely  folk 
like  ourselves,"  and  "common  people."  So  long  as  each 
member  of  the  three  sections  knew  his  place  and  respected 
it,  the  world  was  as  comfortable  a  planet  as  sentient  being 
could  desire.  That  was  one  factor  in  his  worship  of  his 
wife:  she  had  stepped  from  her  higher  plane  to  his  and  had 
loyally,  unmurmuringly  identified  herself  with  it.  He  had 
never  a  notion,  good  man,  of  the  shocks,  the  inner  wounds, 
the  instinctive  revolts,  the  longings  that  she  hid  behind 
her  loving  eyes.  Nor  had  Olivia;  although  as  a  school- 
girl she  knew  and  felt  proud  that  her  mother  really  be- 
longed to  Blair  Park  and  not  to  Landsdowne  House.  As 
she  grew  up,  she  realized  her  mother's  refining  influence, 
and,  as  far  as  young  blood  would  allow,  used  her  as  a 
model  of  speech  and  manner.  And  during  the  long  in- 
valid years,  when  she  read  aloud  and  discussed  a  wide 
range  of  literature,  she  received  unconsciously  a  sensitive 
education.  But  it  was  only  in  this  last  poignant  intimacy, 
when  they  were  left  starkly  alone  together,  that  she 
sounded  the  depths  of  the  loyal,  loving,  and  yet  strangely 
suffering  woman. 

"I  remember  once,  long  ago,  when  you  were  a  mite  of 
five,"  Mrs.  Gale  had  said  in  a  memorable  confidence,  "we 
were  staying  at  a  hotel  in  Eastbourne,  and  I  got  into 
conversation  on  the  verandah  with  a  Colonel  somebody — 
I  forget  his  name — with  whom  we  had  spoken  several 
times  before — one  of  those  spare  brown,  blue-eyed  men, 
all  leather  and  taut  string,  that  wear  their  clothes  like 
uniform.  You  see,  I  was  born  and  bred  among  them, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  15 

dear.  And  we  talked  and  we  talked  and  I  didn't  know 
how  the  time  flew,  and  I  missed  an  appointment  with 
your  father  in  the  town.  And  he  came  and  found  us  to- 
gether— and  he  was  very  angry.  It  was  the  only  time 
in  our  lives  he  said  an  unkind  word  to  me.  It  was  the 
only  time  I  gave  him  any  sort  of  cause  for  jealousy.  But 
he  really  hadn't.  It  was  only  just  the  joy  of  talking  to 
a  gentleman  again.  And  I  couldn't  tell  him.  It  would 
have  broken  his  dear  heart." 

This  was  the  first  flashlight  across  her  mother's  soul, 
and  in  its  illumination  vanished  many  obscure  and  haunt- 
ing perplexities  of  her  girlhood.  Had  Mrs.  Gale  lived 
the  normal  life  of  women,  surrounded  by  those  that 
loved  her,  she  would  doubtless  have  gone  to  her  grave 
without  revealing  her  inner  self  to  living  mortal.  But  in- 
finite sorrow  and  the  weakness  engendered  by  constant 
physical  pain  had  transformed  her  into  a  spirituality  just 
breathing  the  breath  of  life  and  regarding  her  daughter 
less  as  a  woman  than  as  a  kindred  essence  from  whom 
no  secrets  could  be  hid.  At  her  bedside  Olivia  thus 
learned  the  mystery  of  birth  and  life  and  death.  Chiefly 
the  mystery  of  life,  which  appealed  more  to  her  ardent 
maidenhood. 

So  when  at  last  her  mother  faded  out  of  existence  and 
Olivia's  vigil  was  over,  she  faced  a  world  of  changing 
values  with  a  new  set  of  values  of  her  own.  She  could 
not  formulate  them;  but  she  was  acutely  conscious  that 
they  were  different  from  those  of  the  good,  honest  Mr.  Tri- 
vett  and  the  dull  and  honourable  Mr.  Fenmarch,  and  that 
to  all  the  social  circle  which  these  two  represented  they 
would  be  unintelligible.  In  a  way,  she  found  herself 
possessed  of  a  new  calculus  in  which  she  trusted  to  solve 


16  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

the  problems  which  defied  the  simple  arithmetic  of  the 
homely  folk  of  Medlow. 

All  these  memories  and  vague  certainties  passed  through 
the  girl's  mind  as  she  sat  before  the  fire  in  self-examina- 
tion after  her  victory,  and  conflicted  with  the  prosaic 
and  indubitatively  common-sense  arguments  of  her  late 
advisers.  She  knew  that  father  and  brothers,  all  beloved 
and  revered,  would  have  been  staunchly  on  the  side  of  the 
Trivetts.  On  the  other  hand,  her  mother,  as  she  had 
said  to  her  husband  on  the  edge  of  a  far,  far  greater  ad- 
venture, would  have  said:  "Go,  dear."  Of  that  she  had 
no  doubt.  .  .  .  Yet  it  meant  cutting  herself  adrift  from 
Medlow  and  all  its  ways  and  all  its  associations.  It 
meant  a  definite  struggle  to  raise  herself  from  her  father's 
second  social  category  to  the  first.  It  meant,  therefore, 
justifying  herself  against  odious  insinuations  on  the  part 
of  her  scant  acquaintance. 

And  then  the  youth  in  her  rose  insistent.  During  all 
these  years  of  stress  and  fever  which  had  marked  her 
development  from  child  into  woman  she  had  done  nothing 
but  remain  immured  within  the  walls  familiar  from  her 
babyhood.  Other  girls  had  gone  afar,  in  strange  inde- 
pendence, to  vivid  scenes,  to  unforgettable  adventures,  in 
the  service  of  their  country,  in  the  service  of  mankind — 
just  as  her  brothers  and  father  had  gone — and  she  had 
stayed  there,  ineradicable,  in  that  one  little  tiny  spot. 
The  sick-room,  the  kitchen,  the  shops  in  Old  Street,  where, 
in  defiance  of  Food  Controller,  she  had  fought  for  cream 
and  butter  and  eggs  and  English  meat  so  that  her  mother 
could  live;  the  sick-room  again,  the  simple  white  and 
green  bedroom  which  meant  to  her  little  more  than  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  17 

sleep  of  exhaustion;  the  sick-room  once  more,  with  its 
pathos  of  spiritual  love  and  physical  repulsion — such  had 
been  the  iron  environment  of  her  life.  Sorrow  after  sor- 
row, and  mourning  after  mourning  had  come,  and  the 
little  gaieties  of  the  "homely  folk"  of  her  father's  defini- 
tion had  gone  on  without  her  participation.  And  her 
girl  friends  of  Landsdowne  House  had  either  married  ris- 
ing young  tradesmen  in  distant  towns,  or  had  found 
some  further  scope  for  their  energies  at  the  end  of  the 
Great  Adventure  and  were  far  away.  In  the  meanwhile 
other  homely  folk  whom  she  did  not  know  had  poured 
into  the  town.  All  kinds  of  people  seemed  to  be  settling 
there,  anyhow,  without  rhyme  or  reason.  It  was  only 
when  there  was  not  a  house  to  be  rented  in  the  neighbour- 
hood that  she  understood  why. 

"You  have  a  comfortable  home  of  your  own.  Why, 
on  earth,  don't  you  stay  in  it?"  Mr.  Trivett  had  asked. 

But  she  had  stayed  in  it,  alone,  for  the  three  months 
since  her  mother's  death,  waiting  on  the  law's  delays; 
and  those  three  months  had  been  foretaste  enough  of 
the  dreary  infinite  years  that  would  lie  before  her,  should 
she  remain.  She  was  too  young,  too  full  of  sap,  to  face 
the  blight  of  sunlessness.  She  longed  for  the  sights  and 
the  sounds  and  the  freedom  of  the  great  world.  What 
she  would  do  when  she  got  into  it,  she  did  not  exactly 
know.  Possibly  she  might  meet  a  fairy  prince.  If  such 
a  speculation  was  that  of  a  hussy,  why  then,  she  argued, 
all  women  are  hussies  from  birth.  As  for  being  a  fool 
for  defying  advice  on  the  proper  investment  of  her  money 
— well,  perhaps  she  was  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  Mr. 
Trivett  imagined.  If  she  did  not  spend  her  capital,  it 
would  be  just  as  safe  lying  on  deposit  at  the  bank  as  in- 


18  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

vested  in  stocks  and  shares;  safer,  for  she  had  lately  had 
wearisome  experience  of  the  depreciation  of  securities. 
She  would  not  be  senselessly  extravagant;  in  fact,  with 
the  sanguineness  of  youth  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  live  on 
the  interest  on  her  deposit  and  the  rent  of  the  furnished 
house.  But  behind  her,  definite,  tangible,  uninfluenced 
by  Stock  Exchange  fluctuations,  would  be  her  fortune. 
And  then — a  contingency  which  she  did  not  put  before 
Mr.  Trivett  and  Mr.  Fenmarch,  for  a  woman  seldom  dis- 
closes her  main  argument  to  a  male  adversary — there 
might  come  a  glorious  moment  in  some  now  unconjectur- 
able  adventure  when  it  might  be  essential  for  her  to 
draw  cheques  for  dazzling  sums  which  she  could  put  in 
her  pocket  and  go  over  mysterious  hills  and  far  away. 
She  stood  on  the  edge  of  her  dull  tableland  and  gazed 
wide-eyed  at  the  rolling  Land  of  Romance  veiled  by  gold 
and  purple  mist.  And  in  that  Land,  from  immemorial 
time,  people  carried  their  money  in  bags,  into  which  they 
dipped  their  hands,  as  occasion  required,  and  cast  the  un- 
meaning counters  at  the  feet  of  poverty  or  into  the  lap  of 
greed. 

When  she  sat  down  to  her  solitary  supper,  she  had  de- 
cided that  she  was  neither  hussy  nor  fool.  She  held 
baffling  discourse  with  Myra,  who  could  not  be  enticed 
into  enthusiasm  over  the  immediate  future.  Teasing 
Myra  had  been  her  joy  from  infancy.  She  sketched  their 
career — that  of  female  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza 
— that  of  knights  of  old  in  quest  of  glorious  adventure. 
She  quoted,  mock  heroically: 

"The  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrong." 
"Better  redress  the  young  London  women  which  I  see 
the  pictures  of  in  the  illustrated  papers,"  said  Myra. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  19 

Olivia  laughed.  "You  are  a  dear  old  blessing,  you 
know." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  said  Myra,  with  an  expressionless  face. 
"Anyways,  you're  not  going  to  buy  one  of  them  things 
when  you  get  to  London." 

"I  am,"  replied  Olivia.  "And  you'll  have  to  help  me 
put  it  on." 

"You  can't  help  folks  put  on  nothing,"  said  Myra. 

"What  do  you  think  you'll  do  when  you're  really 
shocked?"  asked  Olivia. 

"I  never  think  what  I'll  do,"  replied  Myra.  "It's 
waste  of  time." 

Olivia  enjoyed  her  supper. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  only  when  she  waited  the  next  morning  for  her 
possible  tenant,  the  Major  Olifant  of  whom  Mr. 
Trivett  had  spoken,  and  went  through  the  familiar 
rooms  to  see  that  they  were  fit  for  alien  inspection,  that 
she  realized  the  sacrilege  which  she  was  about  to  commit. 
Every  room  was  sacred,  inhabited  by  some  beloved  ghost. 
The  very  furniture  bore  landmarks  of  the  wear  and  tear 
of  those  that  were  dead.  To  say  nothing  of  the  beds  on 
which  they  had  slept,  the  chairs  in  which  they  had  sat, 
which  still  seemed  to  retain  the  impress  of  their  forms, 
there  persisted  a  hundred  exquisitely  memorable  triviali- 
ties. The  arm  of  the  oak  settle  in  the  hall  still  showed 
the  ravages  of  the  teeth  of  Barabbas,  the  mongrel  bull- 
terrier  pup  introduced,  fifteen  years  ago,  into  the  house, 
by  Charles  her  elder  brother;  an  animal  who,  from  being 
cursed  by  the  whole  family  for  a  pestilential  cur,  wriggled 
his  way,  thanks  to  his  adoration  of  Charles,  into  the  hearts 
of  them  all,  and  died  from  old  age  and  perhaps  doggy 
anxiety  a  few  months  after  Charles  had  sailed  for  France. 
In  her  father's  study,  a  small  room  heterogeneously 
adorned  with  hunting  crops  and  car  accessories  and 
stuffed  trout  and  a  large  scale  map  of  Medlow  and  neigh- 
bourhood and  suggestive  in  no  way  of  a  studious  habit, 
the  surface  of  the  knee-hole  writing  table  and  the  ma- 
hogany mantelpiece  were  scored  with  fluted  little  burns 
from  cigarette-ends,  he  having  been  a  careless  smoker. 

20 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  21 

There  was  a  legend  that  the  family  cradle,  for  many 
years  mouldering  in  an  outhouse,  bore  the  same  stigmata. 
The  very  bathroom  was  not  free  of  intimate  history.  In 
the  midst  of  the  blue  and  red  stained  panes  on  the  lower 
sash  stared  one  of  plain  ground  glass — the  record  of  her 
brother  Bobby  aged  twelve,  who,  vowing  vengeance 
against  an  unsympathetic  visiting  aunt  (soon  afterwards 
deceased),  had  the  brilliant  idea  of  catapulting  her 
through  the  closed  window  while  she  was  having  her 
bath.  And  there  was  her  mother's  room.  .  .  . 

She  could  not  let  all  this  pass  into  vulgar  hands.  The 
vague  plan  of  letting  the  house  furnished,  which  had 
hitherto  not  been  unattractive,  now  became  monstrously 
definite.  She  hated  the  sacrilegious  and  intrusive  Major 
Olifant.  He  would  bring  down  a  dowdy  wife  and  a  cart- 
load of  children  to  the  profanation  of  these  her  household 
gods.  She  went  in  search  of  Myra  and  found  her  dusting 
her  own  prim  little  bedroom. 

"I'm  going  out.  When  Major  Olifant  calls,  tell  him 
I've  changed  my  mind  and  the  house  is  not  to  let." 

Then  she  put  on  hat  and  coat  and  went  downstairs  to 
take  the  air  of  the  sleepy  midday  High  Street.  But  as 
she  opened  the  front  door  she  ran  into  a  man  getting 
out  of  a  two-seater  car  driven  by  a  chauffeur.  He 
raised  his  hat. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  "but  is  this  'The 
Towers'?" 

"It  is,"  she  replied.  "I  suppose  you've — you've  come 
with  an  order  to  view  from  Messrs.  Trivett  and  Gale." 

"Quite  so,"  said  he  pleasantly.  "I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  Miss  Gale." 

"I'm  Miss  Gale,"  said  Olivia. 


22  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

She  noticed  an  involuntary  twitch  of  surprise,  at  once 
suppressed,  pass  over  his  face. 

"And  my  name's  Olifant.     Major  Olifant." 

She  had  pictured  quite  a  different  would-be  intruder,  a 
red-faced,  obese,  and  pushing  fellow.  Instead,  she  saw 
a  well-bred,  spare  man  of  medium  height  wearing  a 
stained  service  Burberry  the  empty  left  sleeve  of  which 
was  pinned  in  front;  a  man  in  his  middle  thirties,  with 
crisp  light  brown  hair,  long,  broad  forehead  characterized 
by  curious  bumps  over  the  brows,  a  very  long,  straight 
nose  and  attractive  dark  blue  eyes  which  keenly  and 
smilingly  held  hers  without  touch  of  offence. 

"I've  decided  not  to  let  the  house,"  said  Olivia. 

The  smile  vanished  from  his  eyes.  "I'm  sorry,"  said 
he  stiffly.  "I  was  given  to  understand " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said  quickly.  Her  conscience 
getting  hold  of  the  missing  arm  smote  her.  "Where  have 
you  come  from?" 

"Oxford." 

She  gasped.    "Why,  that's  a  hundred  miles!" 

"Ninety-four." 

"But  you  must  be  perishing  with  cold,"  she  cried.  "Do 
come  in  and  get  warm,  at  any  rate.  Perhaps  I  can  ex- 
plain. And  your  man,  too."  She  pointed.  "Round 
that  way  you'll  find  a  garage.  I'll  send  the  maid.  Please 
come  in,  Major  Olifant.  Oh — but  you  must!" 

She  entered  the  house,  leaving  him  no  option  but  to 
follow.  To  divest  himself  of  his  Burberry  he  made 
curious  writhing  movements  with  his  shoulders,  and 
swerved  aside  politely  when  she  offered  assistance. 

"Please  don't  worry.  I'm  all  right.  I've  all  kinds  of 
little  stunts  of  my  own  invention." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  23 

And,  as  he  said  it,  he  got  clear  and  threw  the  mackin- 
tosh on  the  oak  chest.  He  rubbed  the  knuckle  of  his 
right  hand  against  the  side  of  his  rough  tweed  jacket. 

"Just  five  minutes  to  get  warm  and  I  won't  trespass 
further  on  your  hospitality." 

She  showed  him  into  the  drawing-room,  thanked  good- 
ness there  was  a  showy  wood-fire  burning,  and  went  out 
after  Myra. 

"I  thought  the  house  wasn't  to  be  let,"  said  the  latter 
after  receiving  many  instructions. 

"The  letting  of  the  house  has  nothing  to  do  with  two 
cold  and  hungry  men  who  have  motored  here  on  a  raw 
November  morning  for  hundreds  of  miles  on  false  pre- 
tences." 

She  re-entered  the  drawing-room  with  a  tray  bearing 
whisky  decanter,  siphon,  and  glass,  which  she  set  on  a 
side  table. 

"I'm  alone  in  the  world  now,  Major  Olifant,"  she  said, 
"but  I've  lived  nearly  all  my  life  with  men — my  father 

and  two  brothers "  She  felt  that  the  explanation 

was  essential.  "Please  help  yourself." 

He  met  her  eyes,  which,  though  defiant,  held  the  menace 
of  tears.  He  made  the  vaguest,  most  delicate  of  gestures 
with  his  right  hand — his  empty  sleeve,  the  air.  She 
moved  an  assenting  head;  then  swiftly  she  grasped  the 
decanter. 

"Say  when." 

"Just  that." 

She  squirted  the  siphon. 

"So?" 

"Perfect.     A  thousand  thanks." 

He  took  the  glass  from  her  and  deferentially  awaited 


24  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

her  next  movement.  Tricksy  memory  flashed  across  her 
mind  the  picture  of  the  Anglo-Indian  colonel  of  her 
mother's  pathetic  little  confidence.  For  a  moment  or  two 
she  stood  confused,  flushed,  self-conscious,  suddenly  hat- 
ing herself  for  not  knowing  instinctly  what  to  do.  In 
desperation  she  cried. 

"Oh,  please  drink  it!     You  must  want  it  awfully." 

He  laughed,  made  a  little  bow,  and  drank. 

"Now  do  sit  down  near  the  fire.  I'm  dreadfully 
sorry,"  she  continued  when  they  were  settled.  "Dread- 
fully sorry  you  should  have  had  all  this  journey  for  noth- 
ing. As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  wanted  to  let  the  house  and 
only  changed  my  mind  an  hour  ago." 

"You  have  lived  here  all  your  life?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Please  say  no  more  about  it,"  said  he  courteously. 

She  burst  at  once  into  explanations.  Father,  brothers, 
mother — all  the  dear  ghosts,  at  the  last  moment,  had  held 
out  their  barring  hands.  He  smiled  at  her  pretty  dark- 
eyed  earnestness. 

"There  are  few  houses  nowadays  without  ghosts.  But 
there  might  be  a  stranger  now  and  then  who  would  have 
the  tact  and  understanding  to  win  their  confidence." 

This  was  at  the  end  of  a  talk  which  had  lasted  she 
knew  not  how  long.  The  little  silence  which  ensued  was 
broken  by  the  shrill  clang  of  the  ormolu  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  striking  one.  She  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"One  o'clock.  Why,  you  must  be  famished.  Seven 
o'clock  breakfast  at  latest.  There'll  be  something  to  eat, 
whatever  it  is." 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Gale,"  cried  Major  Olifant,  rising 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  25 

in  protest,  "I  couldn't  dream  of  it — there  must  be  an 
hotel " 

"There  isn't,"  cried  Olivia  unveraciously,  and  van- 
ished. 

Major  Olifant,  too  late  to  open  the  door  for  her,  re- 
traced his  steps  and  stood,  back  to  fire,  idly  evoking,  as  a 
man  does,  the  human  purposes  that  had  gone  to  the  mak- 
ing of  the  room,  and  he  was  puzzled.  Some  delicate 
spirit  had  chosen  the  old  gold  curtains  which  harmonized 
with  the  cushions  on  the  plain  upholstered  settee  and  with 
the  early  Chippendale  armchairs  and  with  the  Chippen- 
dale bookcase  filled  with  odds  and  ends  of  good  china, 
old  Chelsea,  Coalport,  a  bit  or  two  of  Sevres  and  Dresden. 
Some  green  chrysanthemums  bowed,  in  dainty  ragged- 
ness,  over  the  edge  of  a  fine  cut  crystal  vase.  An  ex- 
quisite water-colour  over  the  piano  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. He  crossed  the  room  to  examine  it  and  drew  a 
little  breath  of  surprise  to  read  the  signature  of  Boning- 
ton — a  thing  beyond  price.  On  a  table  by  the  French 
window,  which  led  into  a  conservatory  and  thence  into 
the  little  garden,  stood  a  box  of  Persian  lacquer.  But 
there,  throwing  into  confusion  the  charm  of  all  this,  a  great 
Victorian  mirror  in  a  heavy  florid  gold  frame  blared  like 
a  German  band  from  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  on  the 
opposite  wall  two  huge  companion  pictures  representing 
in  violent  colours  scenes  of  smug  domestic  life,  also  in 
gold  frames,  with  a  slip  of  wood  let  in  bearing  the  legend 
"Exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  1888,"  screamed  like 
an  orchestrion. 

He  was  looking  round  for  further  evidence  of  obvious 
conflict  of  individualities,  when  Myra  appeared  to  take 


26  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

him  to  get  rid  of  the  dust  of  the  journey.  When  he  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room  he  found  Olivia. 

"I  can't  help  feeling  an  inconscionable  intruder,"  said 
he. 

"My  only  concern  is  that  I'll  be  able  to  give  you 
something  fit  to  eat." 

He  laughed.  "The  man  who  has  come  out  of  France 
and  Mesopotamia  finikin  in  his  food  is  a  fraud." 

"Still,"  she  objected,  "I  don't  want  to  send  you  back 
to  Mrs.  Olifant  racked  with  indigestion." 

"Mrs.  Olifant ?"  He  wore  a  look  of  humorous 

puzzlement. 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  wife  and  family?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  he  cried,  with  an  air  of  horror. 
"I'm  a  bachelor." 

She  regarded  him  for  a  few  seconds,  as  though  from 
an  entirely  fresh  point  of  view. 

"But  what  on  earth  does  a  bachelor  want  with  a  great 
big  house — with  ten  bedrooms?" 

Has  it  got  ten  bedrooms?" 

"I  presume  Mr.  Trivett  sent  you  the  particulars: 
'Desirable  Residence,  standing  in  own  grounds,  three 
acres.  Ten  bedrooms,  three  reception  rooms.  Bath  H. 
and  C.,'  and  so  forth?" 

"The  Bath  H.  and  C.  was  all  I  worried  about." 

They  both  laughed.  Myra  announced  luncheon.  They 
went  into  the  dining-room.  By  the  side  of  Major  Oli- 
fant's  plate  was  a  leather  case.  He  flashed  on  her  a  look 
of  enquiry,  at  which  the  blood  rose  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

"I've  been  interviewing  your  man,"  she  said  rather 
defiantly.  He  produced  that  from  the  pocket  of  the 
car." 


27 

"You  overwhelm  me  with  your  kindness,  Miss  Gale," 
said  he.  "I  should  never  have  had  the  courage  to  ask  for 
it." 

The  case  contained  the  one-armed  man's  patent  com- 
bination knife  and  fork. 

"Courage  is  such  a  funny  thing,"  said  Olivia.  "A 
man  will  walk  up  to  a  machine-gun  in  action  and  knock 
the  gunner  out  with  the  butt  end  of  a  rifle;  but  if  he's 
sitting  in  a  draught  in  a  woman's  drawing-room  and 
catching  his  death  of  cold,  he  daren't  get  up  and  shut 
the  window.  These  are  real  eggs,  although  they're 
camouflaged  in  a  Chinese  scramble.  One  faithful  hen 
is  still  doing  her  one  minute  day.  The  others  are  on 
strike." 

She  felt  curiously  exhilarated  on  this  first  actual  oc- 
casion of  asserting  her  independence.  Only  once  before 
had  she  entertained  guests  at  her  own  table,  and  these 
were  her  uncle  and  aunt  from  Clapham,  the  Edward 
Gales,  who  came  to  her  mother's  funeral.  They  were 
colourless  suburban  folk  who  were  pained  by  her  polite 
rejection  of  their  proposal  to  make  her  home  with  them 
on  a  paying  footing,  and  reproached  her  for  extravagance 
in  giving  them  butter  (of  which,  nevertheless,  they  ate 
greedily)  instead  of  margarine.  Her  uncle  was  a  pallid 
pharmaceutical  chemist  and  lived  above  the  shop,  and 
his  wife,  a  thin-lipped,  negative  blonde,  had  few  interests 
in  life  outside  the  Nonconformist  Communion  into  which 
she  had  dragged  him.  Olivia  had  seen  them  only  once 
before,  also  at  a  funeral,  that  of  a  younger  brother  who 
had  died  at  the  age  of  three.  Her  robustious  country- 
loving,  horse-loving,  dog-loving,  pig-loving  father  had 
never  got  on  with  his  bloodless  brother.  A  staunch  sup- 


28  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

porter  of  the  Church  of  England  to  the  extent  of  rent- 
ing a  pew  in  the  Parish  Church  in  which,  in  spite  of  the 
best  intentions,  he  had  never  found  time  to  sit,  he  con- 
fessedly hated  dissent  and  all  its  works,  especially  those 
undertaken  by  Mrs.  Edward.  His  vice  of  generosity 
did  not  accord  with  their  parsimonious  virtues.  Once, 
Olivia  remembered,  he  had  dined  with  them  at  Clapham 
and  returned  complaining  of  starvation.  "One  kidney  be- 
tween the  three  of  us,"  he  declared.  "And  they  gave 
me  the  middle  gristly  bit!"  So  Olivia  felt  no  call  of  the 
blood  to  Clapham.  And,  for  all  her  inherited  hospitable 
impulses,  she  had  been  glad  when,  having  critically  picked 
the  funeral  baked  meats  to  the  last  bone,  they  had  gone 
off  in  sorrow  over  her  wicked  prodigality  and  lack  of 
true  Christian  feeling.  But  for  their  dreary  and  passing 
shadows  she  had  eaten  alone — she  caught  her  breath  to 
think  of  it — ever  since  her  father's  last  leave — shortly 
before  he  died  at  Etaples — eighteen  months  ago.  Her 
hostess-ship  at  the  present  moment  was  a  bubbling  joy. 
Only  her  sense  of  values  restrained  her  from  ordering  up 
a  bottle  of  champagne.  She  contented  herself  with  a 
bottle  of  old  Gorton — her  father  had  been  a  judge  of 
full  red  wines,  burgundy  and  port,  and  had  stocked  a 
small  but  well-selected  cellar,  and  had  taught  Olivia  what 
is  good  that  a  girl  should  know  concerning  them. 

She  watched  her  guest's  first  sip,  as  her  father  had 
been  wont  to  watch,  and  flushed  with  pleasure  when  he 
paused,  as  though  taken  aback,  sniffed,  sipped  again, 
and  said: 

"Either  new  conditions  are  making  me  take  all  sorts 
of  geese  for  swans,  or  you're  giving  me  a  remarkable 
wine." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  29 

She  burst  out  radiantly:  "How  lovely  of  you  to  spot 
it!  It's  a  Gorton,  1887." 

"But  forgive  me  for  saying  so,"  he  remarked.  "It's 
not  a  wine  you  should  spill  on  any  casual  tramp.  Oh, 
of  course,"  he  protested  in  anticipation.  "Your  polite- 
ness will  assure  me  that  I'm  not  a  casual  tramp.  But  I 
am." 

"I  owed  you  something  for  bringing  you  on  a  fool's 
errand.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  show  you  what  Todger's 
could  do  when  it  liked!" 

"Todger's  is  wonderful,"  he  smiled.  "And  how  you 
could  ever  have  thought  of  leaving  Todger's  is  more  than 
I  can  understand." 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  leave  it,  right  enough,"  she  answered. 
"What  on  earth  do  you  think  a  girl  all  by  herself  wants 
with  a  great  big  house  with  ten  bedrooms,  three  reception 
rooms,  bath  h.  and  c.,  etc.,  etc.?" 

"It's  your  home,  anyhow." 

"That's  why  I  don't  like  to  let  it." 

"Then  why  go  away  from  it?  If  it  is  not  an  im- 
pertinent question,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

She  met  his  clear  blue  eyes  and  laughed. 

"I'm  going  out  into  the  world  to  seek  adventure. 
There!" 

"And  I,"  said  he,  "want  to  get  out  of  the  world  and 
never  have  another  adventure  as  long  as  I  live.  I've  had 
more  than  enough  for  one  lifetime." 

"But  still,"  she  retorted,  conscious  of  his  bearing  and 
vigour  and  other  conjectured  qualities,  "you  can't  con- 
template fossilizing  here  till  the  end  of  time." 

"That's  what  I'm  literally  thinking  of  doing,"  he  re- 
plied. 


30  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

She  felt  the  reaction  of  bitter  disappointment.  A  man 
like  him  had  no  right  to  throw  up  the  sponge.  The 
sudden  blankness  of  her  face  betrayed  her  thoughts.  He 
smiled. 

"I  said  literally,  you  know.  Fossilizing  is  the  literal 
and  practical  sense.  Once  upon  a  time  I  was  a  geologist. 
I  specialized  in  certain  fossils." 

"Oh,"  gasped  Olivia.    "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Very  fascinating  little  fossils,"  he  went  on  without 
reference  to  her  apology,  for  which  Olivia  was  grateful. 
"They're  called  foraminifera.  Do  you  know  what  they 
are?"  Olivia  shook  a  frankly  ignorant  head.  "They're 
little  tiny  weeny  shells,  and  the  things  once  inside  them 
belonged  to  the  protozoa,  or  first  forms  of  life.  They're 
one  of  the  starting-points  to  the  solution  of  the  riddle  of 
existence.  I  was  dragged  away  from  them  to  fool  about 
with  other  kinds  of  shells,  millions  of  times  bigger  and 
millions  of  times  less  important.  I've  got  what  I  think 
are  some  new  ideas  about  them,  and  other  things  con- 
nected with  them — it's  a  vast  subject — and  so  I'm  look- 
ing for  a  quiet  place  where  I  can  carry  on  my  work." 

"That's  awfully  interesting,"  said  Olivia.  "But — for- 
give me — who  pays  you  for  it?" 

"Possibly  mankind  two  hundred  years  hence,"  he 
laughed.  "But,  if  I  stick  it  long  enough,  they  may  make 
me  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society  when  I'm — say — 
seventy-three." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  me  some  more  about  these  forami — 
funny  little  things  I've  never  heard  of,"  said  Olivia. 

But  he  answered:  "No.  If  once  I  began,  I  would 
bore  you  so  stiff  that  you  would  curse  the  hour  you 
allowed  me  to  cross  your  threshold.  There  are  other 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  31 

things  just  as  vital  as  foraminifera.  I've  made  my  con- 
fession, Miss  Gale.  Now,  won't  you  make  yours?  What 
are  you  keen  on?" 

At  the  direct  question,  Olivia  passed  in  review  the  aims 
and  interests  and  pleasures  of  her  past  young  life,  and 
was  abashed  to  find  them  a  row  of  anaemic  little  phan- 
toms. For  years  her  head  had  been  too  full  of  duties. 
She  regarded  him  for  a  moment  or  two  in  dismay,  then 
she  laughed  in  young  defiance. 

"I  suppose  I'm  keen  on  real  live  human  beings.  That's 
my  starting-point  to  the  solution  of  the  riddle  of  exist- 
ence." 

"We'll  see  who  gets  there  first,"  said  he. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  she  stood  by  the  door  which 
he  held  open  for  her  and  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"I  wonder  whether  you  would  care  to  look  over  the 
house?" 

"I  should  immensely.  But — if  you're  not  going  to 
let  it " 

"You'll  be  able,  at  any  rate,  to  tell  Mr.  Trivett  that 
he  had  no  business  to  send  you  to  such  an  old  rabbit 
warren,"  she  replied,  with  some  demureness. 

"I'm  at  your  orders,"  smiled  Olifant. 

She  played  cicerone  with  her  little  business-like  aiTof 
dignity,  spoke  in  a  learned  fashion  of  water  supply,  flues, 
and  boilers.  Olifant  looked  wisely  at  the  kitchen  range, 
while  Myra  stood  at  impassive  attention  and  the  cook 
took  refuge  in  the  scullery. 

"These  holes  are  to  put  saucepans  on,  I  presume,"  said 
he. 

"You've  hit  it  exactly,"  said  Olivia. 

They  went  upstairs.     On  the  threshold  of  the  best 


32  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

bedroom  he  paused  and  cried,  in  some  astonishment: 

"What  an  exquisite  room!" 

"It  was  my  mother's,"  said  Olivia.  "You  can  come  in. 
It  has  a  pleasant  view  over  the  garden." 

Then  Olifant,  who  had  inspected  the  study,  solved  the 
puzzle  of  the  drawing-room.  There  the  man  and  woman 
had  compromised.  She  had  suffered  him  to  hang  his 
Victorian  mirror  and  his  screaming  pictures  in  the  midst 
of  her  delicate  scheme.  But  here  her  taste  reigned  ab- 
solute. It  was  all  so  simple,  so  exquisite:  a  few  bits  of 
Chippendale  and  Sheraton,  a  few  water-colours  on  the 
walls,  a  general  impression  for  curtains  and  upholstery 
of  faded  rose  brocade.  On  a  table  by  the  bed-head  stood 
a  little  row  of  books  in  an  inlaid  stand.  With  the  instinct 
of  a  bookish  man,  Olifant  bent  over  to  look  at  their 
backs,  but  first  turned  to  Olivia. 

"May  I?" 

"Of  course."  Then  she  added,  with  a  vague  longing 
to  impress  on  a  stranger  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  the 
spirit  that  had  created  these  surroundings:  "My  mother 
knew  them  all  by  heart,  I  think.  Naturally  she  used  to 
read  other  things  and  I  used  to  read  aloud  to  her — she 
was  interested  in  everything  till  the  day  of  her  death — 
but  these  books  were  part  of  her  life." 

There  were:  Marcus  Aurelius,  Lord  Herbert  of  Cher- 
bury,  The  Imitation  of  Christ,  Christina  Rossetti,  the  al- 
most forgotten  early  seventeenth  century  Arthur  War- 
wick ("Spare  Minutes;  or,  Resolved  Meditation  and  Pre- 
meditated Resolutions"),  Crabbe  ...  a  dozen  volumes 
or  so.  Olifant  picked  out  one. 

"And  this,  too?     The  Pensees  de  Pascal?" 

"She  loved  it  best,"  said  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  33 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he.  "My  father  spent  most  of  his 
life  on  a  monumental  work  on  Pascal.  He  was  a  Pro- 
fessor of  Divinity  at  a  Scotch  University,  but  died  long 
before  the  monument  could  be  completed.  I've  got  his 
manuscripts.  They're  in  an  awful  mess,  and  it  would 
take  another  lifetime  to  get  them  into  order.  Anyhow,  he 
took  good  care  that  I  should  remember  Pascal  as  long 
as  I  lived." 

"How?" 

"He  had  me  christened  Blaise." 

"Blaise  Olifant,"  she  repeated  critically.  She  laughed, 
"He  might  have  done  worse." 

He  turned  over  the  pages.  "There's  one  thing  here 
that  my  father  was  always  drumming  into  me.  Yes,  here 
it  is.  It's  marked  in  blue  pencil." 

"Then  it  must  have  been  drummed  into  me,  too,"  said 
Olivia. 

"  'On  ne  consulte  que  I'oreille,  parce  qu'on  manque  de 
coKur.  La  regie  est  I'honnetete.' " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

He  replaced  the  book.  They  went  in  silence  out  to  the 
landing.  After  a  few  seconds  of  embarrassment  they 
turned  and  descended  to  the  hall. 

"I  can  more  than  understand,  Miss  Gale,  why  you  feel 
you  can't  let  the  house.  But  I'm  sorry." 

She  weakened,  foreseeing  the  house  empty  and  desolate, 
given  over  to  dust  and  mice  and  ghosts. 

"It  was  the  idea  of  a  pack  of  people,  the  British  Family 
in  all  its  self-centredness  and  selfishness,  coming  in  here 
that  I  couldn't  stand,"  she  confessed. 

"Then  is  there  a  chance  for  me?"  he  asked,  his  face 
brightening.  "Look.  I'm  open  to  a  bargain.  The 


34  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

house  is  just  what  I  want.  I'm  not  a  recluse.  I'm  quite 
human.  I  should  like  to  have  a  place  where  I  can  put 
up  a  man  or  so  for  a  week-end,  and  I've  a  married  sister, 
none  too  happy,  who  now  and  then  might  like  to  find 
a  refuge  with  me.  There's  also  a  friend,  rather  a  dis- 
tinguished fellow,  who  wants  to  join  me  for  a  few  months' 
quiet  and  hard  work.  So,  suppose  I  give  you  my  promise 
to  hold  that  room  sacred,  to  keep  it  just  as  it  is  and  allow 
no  one  to  go  into  it  except  a  servant  to  dust  and  so  forth 
— what  would  you  say?  Not  now.  Think  it  over  and 
write  to  me  at  your  convenience." 

His  sympathy  and  comprehension  had  won  her  over. 
He  was  big  and  kind  and  brotherly.  Somehow  she  felt 
that  her  mother  would  have  liked  him,  accepting  him 
without  question  as  one  of  her  own  caste,  and  would 
have  smiled  on  him  as  High  Priest  in  charge  of  the 
Household  Gods.  She  reflected  for  a  while,  then,  meet- 
ing his  eyes: 

"You  can  have  the  house,  Major  Olifant,"  she  said 
seriously. 

He  bowed.  "I'm  sure  you  will  not  regret  it,"  said  he. 
"I  ought  to  remind  you,  however,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"that  I  may  have  a  stable  companion  for  a  few  months. 
The  distinguished  fellow  I  mentioned.  I  wonder  whether 
you've  heard  of  Alexis  Triona." 

"The  man  who  wrote  Through  Blood  and  Snow?" 

"Have  you  read  it?" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  cried  Olivia.  "What  do  you  think 
I  do  here  all  day?  Twiddle  my  thumbs  or  tell  my  for- 
tune by  cards?" 

"I  hope  you  think  it's  a  great  book,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  35 

"An  amazing  book.  And  you're  going  to  bring  him  to 
live  here?  What's  he  like?" 

"It  would  take  days  to  tell  you." 

"Well,  compress  it  into  a  sort  of  emergency  ration," 
said  Olivia. 

So  he  sat  by  her  side  on  the  oak  settle,  near  the  anthra- 
cite stove  in  the  hall,  and  told  her  what  he  knew  of 
Alexis  Triona. 


CHAPTER  III 

"IT  TT   THAT  Blaise  Olifant  told  Olivia  about  his 
%  /\  I    prospective  co-inhabitant  of  The  Towers, 

Y  T  a°d  what  Rowington,  the  publisher,  and  one 
or  two  others  knew  about  him,  amounted  to  the  fol- 
lowing: 

One  morning  a  motor-car,  having  the  second-hand  air 
of  a  hiring  garage  and  unoccupied  save  for  the  chauffeur, 
drew  up  before  the  door  of  a  great  London  publishing 
house.  The  chauffeur  stepped  from  his  seat,  collected  a 
brown-paper  package  from  the  interior,  and  entered. 

"Can  I  see  a  member  of  the  firm?" 

The  clerk  in  the  enquiry  office  looked  surprised. 
Chauffeurs  offering  manuscripts  on  behalf  of  their  em- 
ployers were  plentiful  as  blackberries  in  September; 
but  chauffeurs  demanding  an  interview  with  the  august 
heads  of  the  house  were  rare  as  blackberries  in  March. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't  do  that,"  he  replied  civilly.  "If 
you  leave  it  here,  it  will  be  all  right.  I'll  give  you  a  re- 
ceipt which  you  can  take  back." 

"I  want  to  explain,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

Scores  of  people  weekly  expressed  the  same  desire.  It 
was  the  business  of  the  clerk  to  suppress  explanations. 

"It's  a  manuscript  to  be  submitted?  Well,  you  must 
tell  the  author " 

"I  am  the  author,"  said  the  chaffeur. 

"Oh!"  said  the  clerk,  and  his  sub-conscious   hand 

36 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  37 

pushed  the  manuscript  a  millimetre  forward  on  the  pol- 
ished mahogany  counter. 

"The  circumstances,  you  see,  are  exceptional," 

There  being  something  exceptional  in  the  voice  and 
manner  of  the  chauffeur,  the  clerk  regarded  him  for  the 
first  time  as  a  human  being. 

"I  quite  see,"  said  he;  "but  the  rules  of  the  firm  are 
strict.  If  you  will  leave  the  manuscript,  it  will  be  read. 
Oh,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,"  he  smiled.  "Every- 
thing that  comes  in  is  read.  We  have  a  staff  who  do  noth- 
ing else.  Is  your  name  and  address  on  it?"  He  be- 
gan to  untie  the  string. 

"The  name,  but  not  the  address." 

On  the  slip  of  paper  which  the  clerk  pushed  across  to 
him  he  wrote: 

Alexis  Triona, 

c/o  John  Briggs. 
3  Cherbury  Mews, 
Surrey  Gardens,  W. 

The  clerk  scribbled  an  acknowledgment,  the  chauffeur 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and,  driving  away,  was  lost  in 
the  traffic  of  London. 

A  fortnight  afterwards,  Alexis  Triona,  who,  together 
with  John  Briggs,  as  one  single  and  indissoluble  chauf- 
feur, inhabited  a  little  room  over  the  garage  in  Cherbury 
Mews,  received  a  letter  to  the  effect  that  the  publishing 
house,  being  interested  in  the  MS.  "Through  Blood  and 
Snow,"  which  he  had  kindly  submitted,  would  be  glad  if 
he  would  call,  with  a  view  to  publication.  The  result  was 
a  second  visit  on  the  part  of  the  chauffeur  to  the  great 
firm.  The  clerk  welcomed  him  with  a  bland  smile, 


38  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

and  showed  him  into  a  comfortably  furnished  room  whose 
thick  Turkey  carpet  signified  the  noiseless  mystery  of 
many  discreet  decades,  and  where  a  benevolent  middle- 
aged  man  in  gold  spectacles  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
chimney-piece.  He  advanced  with  outstretched  hand  to 
meet  the  author. 

"Mr.  Triona?  I'm  glad  to  meet  you.  Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

He  motioned  to  a  chair  by  the  tidy  writing  table,  where 
he  sat  and  pulled  forward  the  manuscript,  which  had 
been  placed  there  in  readiness  for  the  interview.  He 
said  pleasantly: 

"Well.  Let  us  get  to  business  at  once.  We  should 
like  to  publish  your  book." 

The  slight  quivering  of  sensitive  nostrils  alone  betrayed 
the  author's  emotion. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  replied.  "I  think  it's  worth  publish- 
ing." 

Mr.  Rowington  tapped  the  MS.  in  front  of  him  with 
his  forefinger.  "Are  these  your  own  personal  experi- 
ences?" 

"They  are,"  said  the  chauffeur. 

"Excuse  my  questioning  you,"  said  the  publisher.  "Not 
that  it  would  greatly  matter.  But  one  likes  to  know. 
We  should  be  inclined  to  publish  it,  either  as  a  work  of 
fiction  or  a  work  of  fact;  but  the  handling  of  it — the 
method  of  publicity — would  be  different.  Of  course,  you 
see,"  he  went  on  benevolently,  "a  thing  may  be  ab- 
solutely true  in  essence,  like  lots  of  the  brilliant  little 
war  stories  that  have  been  written  the  past  few  years, 
but  not  true  in  the  actual  historical  sense.  Now,  your 
book  would  have  more  value  if  we  could  say  that  it  is 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  39 

true  in  this  actual  historical  sense,  if  we  could  say  that 
it's  an  authentic  record  of  personal  experiences." 

"You  can  say  that,"  answered  Triona  quietly. 

The  publisher  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"How  a  man  could  have  gone  through  what  you  have 
and  remained  sane  passes  understanding." 

For  the  first  time  the  young  man's  set  features  relaxed 
into  a  smile. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  swear  that  I  am  sane,"  said  he. 

"I've  heard  ex-prisoners  say,"  Mr.  Rowington  re- 
marked, "that  six  months'  solitary  confinement  under  such 
conditions" — he  patted  the  manuscript — "is  as  much  as 
the  human  reason  can  stand." 

"As  soon  as  hunting  and  killing  vermin  ceases  to  be  a 
passionate  interest  in  life,"  said  Triona. 

They  conversed  for  a  while.  Stimulated  by  the  pub- 
lisher's question,  Triona  supplemented  details  in  the  book, 
described  his  final  adventure,  his  landing  penniless  in 
London,  his  search  for  work.  At  last,  said  he,  he  had 
found  a  situation  as  chauffeur  in  the  garage  of  a  motor- 
hiring  company.  The  publisher  glanced  at  the  slip  pinned 
to  the  cover  of  the  manuscript. 

"And  John  Briggs?" 

"A  pseudonym.  Briggs  was  my  mother's  name.  I  am 
English  on  both  sides,  though  my  great-grandfather's 
people  were  Maltese.  My  father,  however,  was  a  nat- 
uralized Russian.  I've  mentioned  it  in  the  book." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  publisher.  "I  only  wanted  to  get 
things  clear.  And  now  as  to  terms.  Have  you  any 
suggestion?" 

Afterwards,  Alexis  Triona  confessed  to  a  wild  impulse 
to  ask  for  a  hundred  pounds — outright  sale — and  to  a 


40  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

sudden  lack  of  audacity  which  kept  him  silent.  The 
terms  which  the  publisher  proposed,  when  the  royalty 
system  and  the  probabilities  of  such  a  book's  profits  were 
explained  to  him,  made  him  gasp  with  wonder.  And 
when,  in  consideration,  said  the  publisher,  of  his  present 
impecunious  position,  he  was  offered  an  advance  in  re- 
spect of  royalties  exceeding  the  hundred  pounds  of  his 
crazy  promptings,  his  heart  thumped  until  it  became  an 
all  but  intolerable  pain. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  amazed  that  his  work  should 
have  such  market  value,  "that  I  could  earn  my  living  by 
writing?" 

"Undoubtedly."  The  publisher  beamed  on  the  new 
author.  "You  have  the  matter,  you  have  the  gift,  the 
style,  the  humour,  the  touch.  I'm  sure  I  could  place 
things  for  you.  Indeed,  it  would  be  to  our  common  ad- 
yantage,  pending  publication.  Only,  of  course,  you 
mustn't  use  any  of  the  matter  in  the  book.  You  quite 
understand?" 

Alexis  Triona  understood.  He  went  away  dancing  on 
air.  Write?  His  brain  seethed  with  ideas.  That  the 
written  expression  of  them  should  open  the  gates  of  For- 
tune was  a  new  conception.  He  had  put  together  the 
glowing,  vivid  book  impelled  by  strange,  unknown  forces. 
It  was,  as  he  had  confidently  declared,  worth  publishing. 
But  the  possible  reward  was  beyond  his  dreams.  And 
he  could  see  more  visions.  .  .  . 

So  he  went  back  to  his  garage  and  drove  idle  people 
to  dinners  and  theatres,  and  in  his  scanty  leisure  wrote 
strange  romances  of  love  and  war  in  Circassia  and  Tar- 
tary,  and,  through  the  agency  of  the  powerful  publishing 
house,  sold  them  to  solid  periodicals,  until  the  public 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  41 

mind  became  gradually  familiarized  with  his  name.  It 
was  only  when  the  book  was  published,  and,  justifying 
the  confidence  of  the  great  firm,  blazed  into  popularity, 
that  Triona  discarded  his  livery  and  all  that  appertained 
to  the  mythical  John  Briggs  and,  arraying  himself  in  the 
garb  of  ordinary  citizenship,  entered — to  use,  with  a 
difference,  the  famous  trope  of  a  departed  wit — a  lion 
into  the  den  of  London's  Daniels.  For,  in  their  hundreds, 
they  had  come  to  judgment.  But  knowing  very  little  of 
the  Imperial  Russian  Secret  Service  in  Turkestan,  or  the 
ways  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Ural  Mountains,  or,  at 
that  time,  of  Bolshevik  horrors  in  the  remote  confines  of 
Asia,  they  tore  each  other  to  pieces,  while  the  lion  stepped, 
with  serene  modesty,  in  the  midst  of  them. 

It  was  at  Oxford,  whither  the  sudden  wave  of  fame 
had  drifted  him,  that  he  met  Blaise  Olifant,  who  was 
living  in  the  house  of  his  sister,  the  wife  of  a  brilliant, 
undomesticated  and  somewhat  dissolute  professor  of  polit- 
ical economy.  The  Head  of  a  College,  interested  in 
Russia,  had  asked  him  down  to  dine  and  sleep.  There 
was  a  portentous  dinner-party  whose  conglomerate  brain 
paralyzed  the  salmon  and  refroze  the  imported  lamb. 
They  overwhelmed  the  guest  of  honour  with  their  learn- 
ing. They  all  were  bent  on  probing  beneath  the  surface 
of  his  thrilling  personal  adventures,  which  he  narrated 
from  time  to  time  with  attractive  modesty.  The  episode 
of  his  reprieve  when  standing  naked  beside  the  steaming 
chaldron  in  which  he  was  to  be  boiled  alive  caused  a 
shuddering  silence.  Perhaps  it  was  too  realistic  for  a 
conventional  dinner-party,  but  he  had  discounted  its 
ghastliness  by  a  smiling  nonchalance,  telling  it  as  though 


42  THE  TALE  OF  TRiONA 

it  had  been  an  amusing  misadventure  of  travel.  Very 
shortly  afterwards  Mrs.  Head  of  College  broke  into  a 
disquisition  on  the  continuity  of  Russian  literature  from 
Sumakarov  to  Chekov.  Triona,  a  profound  student  of 
the  subject,  at  last  lost  interest  in  the  academic  socialist 
and  threw  up  his  hands. 

"My  dear  lady,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  theory  in  the 
United  States  accounting  for  the  continued  sale  of  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin.  They  say  immigrants  buy  it  to  familiar- 
ize themselves  with  the  negro  question.  Russian  litera- 
ture has  just  as  much  to  do  with  the  Russia  of  to-day. 
It's  as  purely  archaeological  as  the  literature  of  Ancient 
Assyria." 

Blaise  Olifant,  sitting  opposite,  sympathized  with  the 
man  of  actualities  set  down  in  this  polite  academy.  Once 
he  himself  had  regarded  it  as  the  ganglion  of  the  Thought 
of  the  Universe;  but  having  recently  seen  something  of 
the  said  Universe  he  had  modified  his  view.  Why  should 
these  folk  not  be  content  with  a  plain  human  story  of 
almost  fantastic  adventure,  instead  of  worrying  the  un- 
happy Soldier  of  Fortune  with  sociological  and  meta- 
physical theories  with  which  he  had  little  time  to  concern 
himself?  Why  embroil  him  in  a  discussion  on  the 
League  of  Nations'  duty  to  Lithuania  when  he  was  anx- 
ious to  give  them  interesting  pictures  of  Kurdish  family 
life?  He  looked  round  the  table  somewhat  amusedly 
at  the  elderly  intellectuals  of  both  sexes,  and,  forgetting 
for  a  moment  the  intellectual  years  of  quiet  biological 
research  to  which  he  was  about  to  devote  his  life,  drew 
an  unflattering  contrast  between  the  theorists  and  their 
alien  guest. 

He  liked  the  man.    He  liked  the  boyish,  clean-shaven 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  43 

face,  the  broad  forehead  marked  by  very  thin  horizontal 
lines,  the  thin  brown  hair,  parted  carelessly  at  the  side, 
and  left  to  do  what  it  liked;  the  dark  grey  eyes  that 
sometimes  seemed  so  calm  beneath  the  heavy  lids,  and 
yet  were  capable  of  sudden  illumination;  the  pleasant, 
humorous  mouth,  and  the  grotesque  dimple  of  a  hole  in  the 
middle  of  a  long  chin.  He  pitied  the  man.  He  pitied 
him  for  the  hollows  in  his  temples,  for  the  swift  flash 
of  furtive  glances,  for  the  great  sinews  that  stood  out  in 
his  lean  nervous  hands,  for  the  general  suggestion  of 
shrunken  muscularity  in  his  figure.  A  stone,  or  two, 
thought  he,  below  his  normal  weight.  He  liked  his 
voice,  its  soft  foreign  intonation;  he  liked  his  modesty, 
his  careless  air  of  the  slim  young  man  of  no  account;  he 
liked  the  courteous  patience  of  his  manner.  He  under- 
stood his  little  nervous  trick  of  plucking  at  his  lips. 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  Mrs.  Head  of  College 
said  to  him: 

"A  most  interesting  man — but  I  do  wish  he  would 
look  you  in  the  face  when  he  speaks  to  you." 

Blaise  Olifant  suppressed  a  sigh.  These  good  people 
were  hopeless.  They  knew  nothing.  They  did  not  even 
recognize  the  unmistakable  brand  of  the  prisoner  who 
has  suffered  agony  of  body  and  degradation  of  soul.  No 
man  who  has  been  a  tortured  slave  regains,  for  years, 
command  of  his  eyes.  Hundreds  of  such  men  had  Oli- 
fant seen,  and  the  sight  of  them  still  made  his  heart  ache. 
He  explained  politely.  And  with  a  polite  air  of  uncon- 
vinced assent,  the  lady  received  his  explanation. 

He  asked  Triona  to  lunch  the  next  day,  and  under  the 
warmth  of  his  kindly  sympathy  Triona  expanded.  He 
spoke  of  his  boyhood  in  Moscow,  where  his  father,  a 


44  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

naturalized  Russian,  carried  on  business  as  a  stockbroker; 
of  his  travels  in  England  and  France  with  his  English 
mother;  of  his  English  tutor;  of  his  promising  start  in 
life  in  a  great  Russian  motor  firm — an  experience  that 
guaranteed  his  livelihood  during  his  late  refuge  months 
in  London;  of  his  military  service;  of  his  early  war  days 
as  a  Russian  officer;  of  the  twists  of  circumstance  that 
sent  him  into  the  Imperial  Secret  Service;  of  incredible 
wanderings  to  the  frontiers  of  Thibet;  of  the  Revolution; 
of  the  murder  of  father  and  mother  and  the  disappear- 
ance of  his  fortune  like  a  wisp  of  cloud  evaporated  by  the 
sun;  of  many  strange  and  woeful  things  related  in  his 
book;  of  his  escape  through  Russia;  of  his  creeping  as  a 
stowaway  into  a  Swedish  timber  boat;  of  his  torpedoing 
by  a  German  submarine  and  his  rescue  by  a  British  de- 
stroyer; of  his  landing  naked  save  for  shirt  and  trousers, 
sans  money,  sans  papers,  sans  everything  of  value  save 
his  English  speech;  of  the  Russian  Society  in  London's 
benevolent  aid;  of  the  burning  desire,  an  irresistible 
flame,  to  set  down  on  paper  all  that  he  had  gone  through; 
of  the  intense  nights  spent  over  the  book  in  his  tiny  ram- 
shackle room  over  the  garage;  and,  lastly,  of  the  astound- 
ing luck  that  had  been  dealt  him  by  the  capricious  Wheel 
of  Fortune. 

In  the  presence  of  a  sympathetic  audience  he  threw 
aside  the  previous  evening's  cloak  of  modest  imperson- 
ality. He  talked  with  a  vivid  picturesqueness  that  held 
Olifant  spellbound.  The  furtive  look  in  his  eyes  dis- 
appeared. They  gleamed  like  compelling  stars.  His 
face  lost  its  ruggedness,  transfigured  by  the  born 
narrator's  inspiration.  Olifant's  sister,  Mrs.  Woolcombe, 
a  gentle  and  unassuming  woman  on  whom  the  learning  of 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  45 

Oxford  had  weighed  as  heavily  as  the  abominable  conduct 
of  her  husband,  listened  with  the  rapt  attention  of  a 
modern  Desdemona.  She  gazed  at  him  open  eyed,  half 
stupefied  as  she  had  gazed  lately  at  a  great  cinematograph 
film  which  had  held  all  London  breathless. 

When  he  had  gone  she  turned  to  her  brother,  still  under 
the  spell. 

"The  boy's  a  magician." 

Blaise  Olifant  smiled.     "The  boy's  a  man,"  said  he. 

Chance  threw  them  together  a  while  later  in  London. 
There  they  met  frequently,  became  friends.  The  quiet 
sincerity  of  the  soldier-scholar  that  was  Blaise  Olifant 
seemed  to  strike  some  chord  of  soothing  in  the  heart  of 
the  young  magician.  Fundamentally  ignorant  of  every 
geological  fact,  Triona  brought  to  Olifant's  banquet  of 
fossil  solvents  of  the  mystery  of  existence  an  insatiable 
appetite  for  knowledge.  He  listened  to  reluctant  lectures 
on  elementary  phenomena  such  as  ammonites,  with  the 
same  rapt  attention  as  Olifant  listened  to  his  tales  of 
the  old  Empire  of  Prester  John.  The  Freemasonry  of 
war,  with  its  common  experiences  of  peril  and  mutilation 
— once  Triona  slipped  off  pump  and  sock  and  showed  a 
foot  from  which  three  toes  had  been  shot  away  and  an 
ankle  seared  with  the  fester  of  fetters — formed  a  primary 
bond  of  brotherhood.  By  the  Freemasonry  of  intellect 
they  found  themselves  members  of  a  Higher  Chapter. 

"London  is  wonderful,"  said  Triona  one  day.  "Lon- 
don's appreciation  of  the  poor  thing  I  have  done  is  enough 
to  turn  anyone's  head.  But  while  my  head  is  being 
turned,  in  the  most  delightful  way  in  the  world,  I  can't 
find  time  to  do  any  work.  And  I  must  write  in  order  to 


46  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

live.  Do  you  know  a  little  quiet  spot  where  I  could  stay 
for  the  winter  and  write  this  precious  novel  of  mine?" 

Blaise  Olifant  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"I  myself  am  looking  for  a  sort  of  hermitage.  In  fact, 
I've  heard  of  one  in  Shropshire  which  I'm  going  to  look 
at  next  week.  I  want  a  biggish  house,"  he  explained, 
with  a  smile — "I've  had  enough  of  dug-outs  and  billets 
in  a  farmhouse  with  a  hole  through  the  roof  to  last  me 
my  natural  life.  So  there  would  be  room  for  a  guest.  If 
you  would  care  to  come  and  stay  with  me,  wherever  I 
pitch  my  comfortable  tent,  and  carry  on  your  job  while 
I  carry  on  mine,  you  would  be  more  than  welcome." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  cried  Triona,  impulsively  thrusting 
out  both  hands  to  be  shaken,  "this  is  unheard-of  gener- 
osity. It  means  my  soul's  salvation.  Only  the  horrible 
dread  of  loneliness — you  know  the  old  solitary  prisoner's 
dread — has  kept  me  from  running  down  to  some  little 
out-of-the-way  place — say  in  Cornwall.  I've  shrunk 
from  it.  But  London  is  different.  In  my  chauffeur's 
days  it  was  different.  I  had  always  associates,  fares,  the 
multitudinous  sights  and  sounds  of  the  vast  city.  But 
solitude  in  a  village!  Frankly,  I  funked  it.  I've  lived 
so  much  alone  that  now  I  must  talk.  If  I  didn't  talk  I 
should  go  mad.  Or  rather  I  must  feel  that  I  can  talk  if 
I  want  to.  I  keep  hold  of  myself,  however.  If  I  bored 
you  with  my  loquacity  you  wouldn't  have  made  me  your 
delightful  proposal." 

"Well,  you'll  come,  if  I  can  get  the  right  kind  of 
house?" 

"With  all  the  gratitude  in  life,"  cried  Triona,  his  eyes 
sparkling.  "But  not  as  your  guest.  Some  daily,  weekly, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  47 

monthly  arrangement,  so  that  we  shall  both  be  free — you 
to  kick  me  out — I  to  go " 

"Just  as  you  like,"  laughed  Olifant.  "I  only  should 
be  pleased  to  have  your  company." 

"And  God  knows,"  cried  Triona,  "what  yours  would  be 
to  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

JOHN  FREKE  was  one  of  the  most  highly  respected 
men  in  Medlow.  A  great  leader  in  municipal 
affairs,  he  had  twice  been  Mayor  of  the  town  and 
was  Chairman  of  the  local  hospital,  President  of  clubs 
and  associations  innumerable,  and  held  Provincial 
Masonic  rank.  But  as  John  Freke  persisted  in  walking 
about  the  draper's  shop  in  Old  Street,  established  by  his 
grandfather,  his  family  consorted,  not  with  the  gentry  of 
the  neighbourhood,  but  with  the  "homely  folk"  such  as 
the  Trivetts  and  the  Gales.  His  daughter,  Lydia,  and 
Olivia  had  been  friends  hi  the  far-off  days,  although 
Lydia  was  five  years  older.  She  was  tall  and  creamy  and 
massive  and  capable,  and  had  a  rich  contralto  voice;  and 
Olivia,  very  young  and  eager,  had,  for  a  brief  period,  sat 
adoring  at  her  feet.  Then  Lydia  had  married  a  young 
officer  of  Territorials  who  had  been  billeted  on  her  father, 
and  Olivia  had  seen  her  no  more.  As  a  young  war-wife 
she  pursued  all  kinds  of  interesting  avocations  remote 
from  Medlow,  and,  as  a  young  war-widow,  had  set  up  a 
hat  shop  in  Maddox  Street.  Rumour  had  it  that  she 
prospered.  The  best  of  relations  apparently  existed 
between  herself  and  old  John  Freke,  who  put  up  the 
capital  for  her  venture,  and  desultory  correspondence  had 
kept  her  in  touch  with  Olivia.  The  fine  frenzy  of  girlish 
worship  had  been  cured  long  ago  by  Lydia's  cruel  lack  of 
confidence  during  her  courtship.  The  announcement  of 

48 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  49 

the  engagement  had  been  a  shock;  the  engagement  itself 
a  revelation  of  selfish  preoccupation.  A  plain  young 
sister  had  been  sole  bridesmaid  at  the  wedding,  and  the 
only  sign  of  Lydia's  life  during  the  honeymoon  had  been 
a  picture  postcard  on  the  correspondence  space  of  which 
was  scrawled  "This  is  a  heavenly  place.  Lydia  Dawlish." 
Then  had  followed  the  years  of  sorrow  and  stress,  during 
which  Olivia's  hurt  at  the  other's  gracelessness  had  passed, 
like  a  childish  thing,  away. 

Lydia's  succeeding  letters,  mainly  of  condolence,  had, 
however,  kept  unbroken  the  fragile  thread  of  friend- 
ship. The  last,  especially,  written  after  Mrs.  Gale's 
death,  gave  evidence  of  sincere  feeling,  and  emboldened 
Olivia,  who  knew  no  other  mortal  soul  in  London — the 
real  London,  which  did  not  embrace  the  Clapham  aunt 
and  uncle — to  seek  her  practical  advice.  In  the  volu- 
minous response  she  recognized  the  old  capable  Lydia. 
Letter  followed  letter  until,  with  Mr.  Trivett's  pro- 
fessional assistance,  she  found  herself  the  lucky  tenant  of 
a  little  suite  in  a  set  of  service  flats  in  Victoria  Street. 

She  entered  into  possession  a  fortnight  after  her  inter- 
view with  Blaise  Olifant,  who  was  to  take  up  residence  at 
"The  Towers"  the  following  day.  Mr.  Trivett  and  his 
wife,  Mr.  Fenmarch  and  Mr.  Freke,  and  the  elder  Miss 
Freke,  who  kept  house  for  her  father,  saw  her  off  at  the 
station,  covering  her  with  their  protective  wings  to  the 
last  moment.  Each  elderly  gentleman  drew  her  aside, 
and,  with  wagging  of  benevolent  head,  offered  help  in 
time  of  trouble.  They  all  seemed  to  think  she  was  mak- 
ing for  disaster.  . 

But  their  solicitude  touched  her  deeply.    The  lump 


SO  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

that  had  arisen  in  her  throat  when  she  had  passed  out 
across  the  threshold  of  her  old  home  swelled  uncomfort- 
ably, and,  when  the  train  moved  off  and  she  responded  to 
waving  hands  and  hats  on  the  platform,  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes.  Presently  she  recovered. 

"Why  should  things  so  dear  be  so  dismal?" 
Myra,  exhibiting  no  symptoms  of  exhilaration,  did  not 
reply.  As  they  approached  London,  Olivia's  spirits  rose. 
At  last  the  dream  of  the  past  weeks  was  about  to  be 
realized.  When  she  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  Padding- 
ton,  it  was  with  the  throb  of  the  conqueror  setting  foot,  for 
the  first  time  on  coveted  territory.  She  devoured  with 
her  eyes,  through  the  taxi  windows,  the  shops  and  sights 
and  the  movement  of  the  great  thoroughfares  through 
which  they  passed  on  their  way  to  Victoria  Mansions, 
where  her  fifth-floor  eyrie  was  situated.  Once  there, 
Myria,  accustomed  to  the  spacious  family  house,  sniffed 
at  the  exiguous  accommodation  and  sarcastically 
remarked  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  air  were  laid 
on  like  gas.  But  Olivia  paid  little  heed  to  her  immed- 
iate surroundings.  The  cramped  flat  was  but  the  cam- 
paigner's tent.  Her  sphere  of  action  lay  limitless  beyond 
the  conventional  walls.  The  walls,  however,  bounded 
the  sphere  of  Myra,  who  had  no  conception  of  glorious 
adventure.  The  rapidly  ascending  lift  had  caused 
qualms  in  an  unaccustomed  stomach,  and  she  felt 
uneasy  at  living  at  such  a  height  above  the  ground.  Why 
Olivia  could  not  have  carried  on  for  indefinite  years 
in  the  comfort  and  security  of  "The  Towers"  she  was 
at  a  loss  to  imagine.  Why  give  up  the  ease  of  a  big 
house  for*  poky  lodgings  halfway  up  to  the  sky.  A 
sitting-room,  a  bedroom,  a  slip  with  a  bed  in  it  for 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  51 

herself,  a  bathroom — Myra  thanked  goodness  both  of 
them  were  slim — and  that  was  the  London  of  Olivia's 
promise.  She  sighed.  At  last  put  down  Olivia's  ab- 
erration to  the  war.  The  war,  in  those  days,  explained 
everything. 

Meanwhile  Olivia  had  thrown  up  the  sash  of  the  sitting- 
room  window  and  was  gazing  down  at  the  ceaseless 
traffic  in  the  street  far  below — gazing  down  on  the  roofs 
of  the  taxis  and  automobiles  which  sped  like  swift 
flat  beetles,  on  the  dwarfed  yet  monstrous  insects 
that  were  the  motor-buses,  on  the  foreshortened 
dots  of  the  hurrying  ant-like  swarms  of  pedestrians. 
It  was  gathering  dusk,  and  already  a  few  lights 
gleamed  from  the  masses  of  buildings  across  the 
way.  Soon  the  street  lamps  sprang  into  successive 
points  of  illumination.  She  stood  fascinated, 
watching  the  rapid  change  from  December  day  into 
December  night,  until  at  last  the  distant  road  seemed  but 
a  fantastic  medley  of  ever-dying,  ever-recurring  sounds 
and  flashes  of  white  and  red.  Yet  it  was  not  fantastic 
chaos — her  heart  leapt  at  the  thought — it  was  pregnant 
with  significance.  All  that  rumble  and  hooting  and  dart- 
ing light  proclaimed  human  purpose  and  endeavour, 
mysterious,  breath-catching  in  its  unknown  and  vast  cor- 
porate intensity.  Shivers  of  ecstasy  ran  through  her. 
At  last  she  herself  was  a  unit  in  this  eager  life  of  London. 
She  would  have  her  place  in  the  absorbing  yet  perplexing 
drama  into  the  midst  of  which  she  had  stepped  with  no 
key  to  its  meaning.  But  she  would  pick  up  the  threads, 
learn  what  had  gone  before — of  that  she  felt  certain — 
and  then — she  laughed — she  would  play  her  part  with 
the  best  of  them.  To-morrow  she  would  be  scurrying 


52  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

about  among  them,  with  her  definite  human  aims.  Why 
not  to-night?  Delirious  thought!  She  was  free.  She 
could  walk  out  into  the  throbbing  thoroughfares  and  who 
could  say  her  nay?  She  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  and 
felt  the  crackle  of  ten  five-pound  notes.  To  emotional 
girlhood  the  feel  of  money,  money  not  to  hoard  and  make- 
do  for  weeks  and  weeks  with  the  spectre  of  want  ever  in 
attendance,  but  money  to  fling  recklessly  about,  has  its 
barbaric  thrill.  Suppose  she  let  slip  from  her  fingers  one 
of  the  notes  and  it  swayed  and  fluttered  down,  down, 
down,  until  at  last  it  reached  the  pavement,  and  suppose 
a  poor  starving  girl  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  home  to 
her  invalid  mother.  .  .  .  But,  on  the  other  hand,  suppose 
— and  her  profound  and  cynical  knowledge  of  human 
chances  assured  her  that  it  would  be  a  thousand  to  one 
probability — supposing  it  fell  on  the  silk  hat  of  a  cor- 
pulent profiteer!  No.  She  was  not  going  to  shower 
promiscuous  five-pound  notes  over  London.  But  still 
the  crackling  wad  meant  power.  She  was  free  to  go  forth 
there  and  then  and  purchase  all  the  joys,  for  herself  and 
others,  hovering  over  there  in  that  luminous  haze  over 
the  Westminster  towers  of  the  magical  city  of  dreams. 

She  withdrew  from  the  window  and  stood  in  the  dark 
room,  a  light  in  her  eyes,  and  clenched  her  hands.  Yes. 
She  would  go  out,  now,  and  walk  and  walk,  and  fill  her 
soul  with  the  wonder  of  it  all. 

And  then  practical  memory  administered  a  prosaic  jog 
to  her  aspiring  spirit.  Lydia  Dawlish  was  coming  to 
dine  with  her  in  the  common  dining-room  or  restaurant 
downstairs.  Shivering  with  cold,  she  shut  the  window, 
turned  on  the  light  and  sat  by  the  fire,  and  ordered  tea  in 
the  most  matter-of-fact  way  in  the  world. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  53 

Lydia  Dawlish  appeared  a  couple  of  hours  afterwards 
— fair,  plump,  and  prosperous,  attired  in  one  of  her  own 
dashing  creations  of  hats  set  at  a  rakish  angle  on  her 
blond  hair,  and  a  vast  coat  of  dark  fur.  Olivia,  in  her 
simple  black  semi-evening  frock  run  up  by  an  agitated 
Medlow  dressmaker,  felt  a  poor  little  dot  of  a  thing 
before  this  regal  personage.  And  when  the  guest  threw 
off  the  coat,  the  flowered  silk  lining  of  which  was  a  dazing 
joy  to  starved  feminine  eyes,  and  revealed  the  slate-blue 
dinner  gown  from  which  creamy  neck  and  shapely  arms 
emerged  insolent,  Olivia  could  do  nothing  but  stare  open- 
mouthed,  until  power  came  to  gasp  her  wonder  and 
admiration. 

"It's  only  an  old  thing,"  said  Lydia.  "I  had  to  put  on 
a  compromise  between  downstairs  and  Percy's." 

"Percy's?" 

"Yes — don't  you  know?  The  night  club.  I'm  going 
on  afterwards." 

Olivia's  face  fell.  "I  thought  you  were  going  to  spend 
the  evening  with  me." 

"Of  course  I  am,  silly  child.  Night  clubs  don't  begin 
till  eleven.  A  man,  Sydney  Rooke,  is  calling  for  me. 
Well.  How  are  you?  And  what  are  your  plans  now 
you've  got  here?" 

She  radiated  health  and  vigour.  Also  proclaimed  sex 
defiant,  vaguely  disquieting  to  the  country  bred  girl. 
Olivia  felt  suddenly  shy. 

"It  will  take  me  a  few  days  to  turn  round." 

"Also  to  find  clothes  to  turn  round  in,"  said  Lydia,  with 
a  good-humoured  yet  comprehensive  glance  at  the  funny 
little  black  frock.  "I  hope  you  haven't  been  laying  in  a 
stock  of  things  like  that." 


54  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Olivia  smiled.  This  was  but  a  makeshift.  She  had 
been  saving  up  for  London.  Perhaps  Lydia  would  advise 
her.  She  had  heard  of  a  good  place — what  did  they  call 
it? — an  enormous  shop  in  Oxford  Street.  Lydia  threw 
up  her  white  arms. 

"My  dear  child,  you're  not  going  to  be  a  fashionable 
beauty  at  subscription  dances  and  whist-drives  at  Upper 
Tooting!  You're  going  to  live  in  London.  Good  God! 
You  can't  get  clothes  in  Oxford  Street." 

"Where  shall  I  get  them,  then?"  asked  Olivia. 

From  the  illustrated  papers  she  had  become  aware  of 
the  existence  of  Pacotille  and  Luquin  and  other  mongers 
of  celestial  fripperies;  but  she  had  also  heard  of  the  Stock 
Exchange  and  the  Court  of  St.  James's  and  the  Stepney 
Board  of  Guardians;  and  they  all  seemed  equally  remote 
from  her  sphere  of  being. 

"I'll  take  you  about  with  me  to-morrow,"  Lydia 
declared  grandly,  "and  put  you  in  the  way  of  things.  I 
dare  say  I  can  find  you  a  hat  or  two  chez  Lydia — that's 
me — at  cost  price."  She  laughed  and  put  a  patronizing 
arm  around  Olivia's  shoulders.  "We'll  make  a  woman  of 
you  yet." 

The  lift  carried  them  down  to  the  restaurant  floor. 
They  dined,  not  too  badly,  at  a  side  table  from  which  they 
could  view  the  small  crowded  room.  Olivia  felt  dis- 
appointed. Only  a  few  people  were  in  evening  dress.  It 
was  rather  a  dowdy  assembly,  very  much  like  that  in  the 
boarding-house  at  Llandudno,  her  father's  summer  holiday 
resort  for  years  before  the  war.  Her  inexperience  had 
expected  the  glitter  and  joy  of  London.  Hospitably  she 
offered  wine,  champagne,  as  her  father,  a  lover  of  celebra- 
tions, would  have  done;  but  Lydia  drank  nothing  with 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  55 

her  meals — the  only  way  not  to  get  fat,  which  she  dreaded. 
Olivia  drank  water.  The  feast  seemed  tame,  and  the 
imported  mutton  tough.  She  reproached  herself  for 
inadequate  entertainment  of  her  resplendent  friend. 

They  talked;  chiefly  Lydia,  after  she  had  received 
Olivia's  report  on  her  family's  welfare  and  contemporary 
Medlow  affairs;  and  Olivia  listened  contentedly,  absorb- 
ing every  minute  strange  esoteric  knowledge  of  the  great 
London  world  of  which  the  pulsating  centre  appeared  to 
be  Lydia,  Ltd.,  in  Maddox  Street.  There  Duchesses 
bought  hats  which  their  Dukes  did  not  pay  for.  There 
Cabinet  Ministers'  wives,  in  the  hope  of  getting  on  the 
right  financial  side  of  Lydia,  whispered  confidential 
Cabinet  secrets,  while  Ministers  wondered  how  the 
deuce  things  got  into  the  papers.  There  romantic  engage- 
ments were  brought  from  inception  to  maturity.  There 
also,  had  she  chosen  to  keep  a  record,  she  could  have 
accumulated  enough  evidence  to  bring  about  the  divorces 
of  half  the  aristocracy  of  England.  She  rattled  off  the 
names  like  a  machine-gun.  She  impressed  Olivia  with 
the  fact  that  Lydia,  Ltd.,  was  not  a  mere  hat  shop,  but  a 
social  institution  of  which  Lydia  Dawlish  was  the  creat- 
ing and  inspiring  personality.  Lydia,  it  appeared,  week- 
ended at  great  houses.  "You  see,  my  dear,  my  husband 
was  the  son  of  an  Honourable  and  the  grandson  of  an 
Earl.  He  hadn't  much  money,  poor  darling,  but  still  he 
had  the  connection,  most  useful  to  me  nowadays.  The 
family  buy  their  hats  from  me,  and  spread  the  glad 
tidings."  She  commanded  a  legion  of  men  who  had 
vowed  that  she  should  live,  free  of  charge,  on  the  fat  of 
the  land,  and  should  travel  whithersoever  she  desired  in 
swift  and  luxurious  motor-cars. 


56  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Of  course,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "it's  rather  a  strain. 
Men  will  cart  about  a  stylish,  good-looking  woman  for  a 
certain  time,  just  out  of  vanity.  But  if  she's  a  dull  dam 
fool,  they're  either  bored  to  tears  and  chuck  her,  or  they'll 

want  to — well — well Anyhow,  you've  got  to  keep 

your  wits  about  you  and  amuse  them.  You've  got  to  pay 
for  everything  in  this  life — or  work  for  the 
means  of  paying — which  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
And  I  work.  I  don't  say  it  isn't  pleasant  work — 
but  it's  hard  work.  You  go  out  with  a  man 
to  dinner,  theatre  and  a  night  club,  and  dismiss 
him  at  your  front  door  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing with  the  perfectly  contented  feeling  that  he  has  had 
a  perfectly  good  time  and  would  be  an  ass  to  spoil  things 
by  hinting  at  anything  different — and  you've  jolly  well 
earned  your  comfortable,  innocent  night's  rest." 

This  explosion  of  the  whole  philosphy  of  modern  con- 
scientious woman  came  at  the  end  of  dinner.  Olivia  toyed 
absently  with  her  coffee,  watching  successive  spoonfuls  of 
tepid  light-amber  coloured  liquid  fall  into  her  cup. 

"But — all  these  men — "  she  said  in  a  low  voice — the 
position  was  so  baffling  and  so  disconcerting.  "You  are 
a  beautiful  and  clever  woman.  Don't  they  sometimes 
want  to — to  make  love  to  you?" 

"They  all  do.  What  do  you  think?  I,  an  unattached 
widow  and,  as  you  say,  not  unattractive.  But  because 
I'm  clever,  I  head  them  off.  That's  the  whole  point  of 
what  I've  been  telling  you." 

"But,  suppose,"  replied  Olivia,  still  intent  on  the 
yellowish  water,  "suppose  you  fell  in  love  with  one  of 
these  men.  Women  do  fall  in  love,  I  believe." 

"Why  then,  I'd  marry  him  the  next  day,"  cried  Lydia, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  57 

with  a  laugh.  "But,"  she  added,  "that's  not  the  type 
of  man  a  sensible  woman  falls  in  love  with." 

Olivia's  eyes  sought  the  tablecloth.  She  was  conscious 
of  disturbance  and,  at  the  same  time,  virginal  resentment. 

"As  far  as  my  limited  experience  goes — a  woman  isn't 
always  sensible." 

"She  has  to  learn  sense.  That's  the  great  advantage 
of  modern  life.  It  gives  her  every  opportunity  of  acquir- 
ing it  from  the  moment  she  goes  out  into  the  world." 

"And  what  kind  of  man  does  the  sensible  woman  fall 
in  love  with?" 

"Somebody  comfortable,"  replied  Lydia.  "My  ideal 
would  be  a  young,  rather  lazy  and  very  broad-minded 
bishop." 

Olivia  shook  her  head.  The  only  time  she  had  seen 
a  bishop  was  at  her  confirmation.  The  encounter  did 
not  encourage  dreams  of  romance  in  episcopal  circles. 

"But  these  men  who  take  you  out,"  Olivia  persisted 
thoughtfully  "and  do  all  these  wonderful  things  for  you 
— it  must  cost  them  a  dreadful  lot  of  money — what  kind 
of  people  are  they?" 

"All  sorts.  Some  are  of  the  very  best — the  backbone 
of  the  nation.  They  go  off  and  marry  nice  girls  who 
don't  frequent  night  clubs  and  settle  down  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives." 

They  drank  their  coffee  and  went  upstairs,  where  ques- 
tions of  more  immediate  practical  interest  occupied  their 
minds.  Olivia's  wardrobe  was  passed  in  review,  while 
Myra  stood  impassive  like  a  sergeant  at  kit  inspection. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Lydia,  "you've  not  a  single 
article,  inside  or  outside,  that  is  fit  to  wear.  I'll  send 
you  a  second-hand  clothes  man  who'll  buy  up  the  whole 


58  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

lot  as  it  stands  and  give  you  a  good  price  for  it.  I  don't 
know  yet  quite  what  you're  thinking  of  doing — but  at 
any  rate  you  can't  do  it  in  these  things." 

Olivia  looked  wistfully  at  the  home-made  garments 
which  Lydia  cast  with  scorn  across  the  bed.  They,  at 
least,  had  seemed  quite  dainty  and  appropriate. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "you  know  best,  Lydia." 

These  all  important  matters  held  their  attention  till 
a  quarter  past  eleven,  when  Mr.  Sydney  Rooke  was 
announced.  He  was  an  elderly  young  man  in  evening 
dress,  with  crisp  black  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and  thin- 
ning at  the  temples.  A  little  military  moustache  gave 
him  an  air  of  youth  which  was  belied  by  deep  lines  in 
his  sallow  face.  His  dark  eyes  were  rather  tired  and  his 
mouth  hard.  But  his  manners  were  perfect.  He  gave 
them  both  to  understand  that  though  Lydia  was,  natur- 
ally, the  lady  of  his  evening's  devotion  yet  his  heart  was 
filled  with  a  sense  of  Olivia's  graciousness.  Half  a 
dozen  words  and  a  bow  did  it.  In  a  polite  phrase,  a  bow 
and  a  gesture  he  indicated  that  if  Miss  Gale  would  join 
them,  his  cup  of  happiness  would  overflow.  Olivia 
pleaded  fatigue.  Then  another  evening?  With  Mrs. 
Dawlish.  A  pleasant  little  party,  in  fact.  He  would 
be  enchanted. 

"We'll  fix  it  up  for  about  a  fortnight  hence,"  said 
Lydia  significantly.  "To-morrow,  then,  dear,  at  eleven." 

When  they  had  gone  Olivia,  who  had  accompanied 
them  to  the  flat  door,  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  and,  put- 
ting her  hands  behind  her  head  stared  over  the  edge  of 
her  own  world  into  a  new  one,  strange  and  bewildering. 

Myra  entered. 

"Are  you  ever  going  to  bed?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  59 

"I  suppose  I  must,"  said  Olivia. 
"Are  dressed-up  men  like  that  often  coming  here?" 
"God  knows,"  said  Olivia,  "who  are  coming  here.    I 
don't." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  Odyssey  or  the  Argonautic,  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  the  epic  of  the  first  wild  adventure 
of  a  young  woman  into  the  Infinite  of  Clothes, 
has  yet  to  be  written.  It  would  need  not  only  a  poet, 
but  a  master  of  psychology,  to  record  the  myriad  vibra- 
tions of  the  soul  as  it  reacts  to  temptations,  yieldings, 
tremulous  thrills  of  the  flesh,  exquisite  apprehensions, 
fluttering  joys,  and  each  last  voluptuous  plenitude  of 
content.  It  is  an  adventure  which  absorbs  every  faculty 
of  the  will;  which  ignores  hunger  and  thirst,  weariness 
of  limb  and  ache  of  head;  which  makes  the  day  a  dream 
of  reality  and  the  night  the  reality  of  a  dream.  Hard- 
ened women  of  the  world  with  frock-worn  minds  are 
caught  at  times  by  the  lure  of  the  adventure,  even  when 
it  is  a  question  of  a  dress  or  two  and  a  poor  half  a  dozen 
hats.  But  how  manifold  more  potent  the  spell  in  the 
case  of  one  who  starts  with  her  young  body  in  Nymph- 
like  innocence  and  is  called  upon  to  clothe  it  again  and 
again  in  infinite  variety,  from  toe  to  head,  from  inner- 
most secret  daintiness  to  outward  splendour  of  bravery! 
Such  a  record  would  explain  Olivia,  not  only  to  the 
world,  but  to  herself  during  that  first  fortnight  in  Lon- 
don. Her  hours  could  be  reckoned  by  gasps  of  wonder. 
She  lost  count  of  time,  of  money,  of  human  values. 
Things  that  had  never  before  entered  into  her  philosophy, 
such  as  the  subtle  shade  of  silk  stockings  which  would 

60 


61 

make  or  mar  a  costume,  loomed  paramount  in  impor- 
tance. The  after-use  scarcely  occurred  to  her.  Suffi- 
cient for  the  day  was  the  chiffon  thereof;  also  the  gradual 
transformation  of  herself  from  the  prim  slip  of  a  girl 
with  just  the  pretension  (in  her  own  mind)  to  good  looks, 
into  a  radiant  and  somewhat  distinguished  dark-haired 
little  personage. 

Her  shrinkings,  her  arguments  with  Lydia  Dawlish, 
her  defeats,  went  all  into  the  melting-pot  of  her  delight. 
"No  bath  salts,  my  dear?"  cried  Lydia.  "Whoever 
heard  of  a  woman  not  using  bath  salts?"  So  bath  salts 
were  ordered.  And — horrified:  "My  dear,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  wash  your  face  in  soap  and  water. 
What  will  become  of  your  skin?"  So  Olivia  was  put 
under  the  orders  of  a  West  End  specialist,  who  stocked 
her  dressing-table  with  delectable  creams  and  oils.  It 
was  all  so  new,  so  unheard  of,  so  wonderful  to  the  girl, 
an  experience  worth  the  living  through,  even  though  all 
thousands  at  deposit  at  the  bank  should  vanish  at  the 
end  of  it.  Merely  to  sit  in  a  sensuously  furnished  room 
and  have  beautiful  women  parade  before  her,  clad  in 
dreams  of  loveliness — any  one  of  which  was  hers  for  a 
scribble  on  a  bit  of  pink  paper — evoked  within  her 
strange  and  almost  spiritual  emotions.  Medlow  was 
countless  leagues  away;  this  transcended  the  London 
even  of  her  most  foolish  visions. 

Afterwards  Olivia,  when,  sense  of  values  being  restored 
she  looked  back  on  this  phantasmagoria  of  dressmakers, 
milliners,  lingerie  makers  and  furriers,  said  to  Lydia 
Dawlish: 

"It's  funny,  but  the  fact  that  there  might  be  a  man 
or  so  in  the  world  never  entered  my  head." 


62  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

And  the  wise  Lydia  answered:  "You  were  too  busy 
turning  yourself  into  a  woman." 

Twice  or  thrice  during  this  chrysalis  period  she  stole 
out  of  nights  with  Myra  to  the  dress  circle  of  a  theatre, 
where,  besides  ingenuous  joy  in  the  drama,  she  found 
unconfessed  consolation  in  the  company  of  homely  folk 
like  herself — girls  in  clean  blouses  or  simple  little  frocks 
like  her  own,  and  young  men  either  in  well-worn  khaki 
or  morning  dress.  On  these  occasions  she  wondered 
very  much  what  she  was  about  to  do  in  the  other  galley 
— that  of  the  expensively  furred  and  jewelled  haughti- 
nesses and  impudences  whom  she  shouldered  in  the  vesti- 
bule crush  and  whom  she  saw  drive  away  in  luxurious 
limousines.  These  flashing  personalities  frightened  her 
with  their  implied  suggestions  of  worlds  beyond  her  ken. 
One  woman  made  especial  impression  on  her — a  woman 
tall,  serene,  with  a  clear-cut  face,  vaguely  familiar,  and 
a  beautiful  voice;  she  overheard  a  commonplace  phrase 
or  two  addressed  to  the  escorting  man.  She  brushed 
Olivia's  arm  and  turned  with  a  smile  and  a  word  of  gra- 
cious apology  and  passed  on.  Olivia  caught  a  whisper 
behind  her.  "That's  the  Marchioness  of  Aintree.  Isn't 
she  lovely?"  But  she  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  she 
had  been  in  contact  with  a  great  lady.  And  she  went 
home  doubting  exceedingly  whether,  for  all  her  flourish  of 
social  trumpets,  Lydia  Dawlish's  galley  was  that  of  Lady 
Aintree. 

Criticism  of  Lydia,  however,  she  put  behind  her  as 
ingratitude,  for  Lydia  made  up  royally  for  past  negli- 
gence. Time  and  energy  that  ought  to  have  been  de- 
voted to  Lydia,  Ltd.,  was  diverted  to  the  creation  of 
Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  63 

"I  don't  know  why  you're  so  good  to  me,"  she  would 
say. 

And  the  other,  with  a  little  mocking  smile  round  her 
lips:  "It's  worth  it.  I'm  giving  myself  a  new  experi- 
ence." 

The  first  occasion  on  which  she  went  out  into  the  great 
world  was  that  of  Sydney  Rooke's  party.  She  knew  that 
her  low-cut,  sleeveless,  short-skirted  gown  of  old  gold 
tissue  had  material  existence,  but  she  felt  herself  half- 
ashamedly,  half-deliciously  clad  in  nothing  but  a  bodily 
sensation.  A  faint  blush  lingered  in  her  cheeks  all  the 
evening.  Lydia,  calling  for  her  in  Rooke's  car,  which 
had  been  placed  at  her  disposal,  held  her  at  arm's  length 
in  sincere  and  noble  admiration,  moved  by  the  artist's 
joy  in  beholding  the  finished  product  of  his  toil,  and 
embraced  her  fondly.  Then  she  surveyed  her  again, 
from  the  little  gold  brocade  slippers  to  the  diamond 
butterfly  (one  of  her  mother's  bits  of  jewellery)  in  her 
dark  wavy  hair. 

"You're  the  daintiest  elf  in  London,"  she  cried. 

To  the  dinner  at  the  Savoy  Sydney  Rooke  had  invited 
a  white-moustached  soldier,  Major-General  Wigram, 
whose  blue  undress  uniform,  to  the  bedazzlement  of 
Olivia,  gleamed  with  four  long  rows  of  multi-coloured 
ribbon;  a  vivacious  middle-aged  woman,  Mrs.  Fane  Syl- 
vester, who  wrote  novels,  plays,  books  of  travel,  and 
fashion  articles  in  a  weekly  periodical — Olivia  learned 
all  this  in  their  first  five-minute  converse  in  the  lounge; 
Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Barraclough,  he  a  young  baronet 
whose  civilian  evening  dress  could  not  proclaim  hard- 
won  distinctions,  she  a  pretty,  fair,  fragile  creature,  both 


64  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

of  them  obviously  reacting  joyously  to  relaxation  of  ten- 
sion; and,  last,  the  Vicomte  de  Mauregard,  of  the  French 
Embassy,  young,  good  looking,  who  spoke  polished  Eng- 
lish with  a  faultless  accent.  It  was,  socially,  as  correct 
a  little  party  as  the  brooding,  innocent  spirit  of  Mrs. 
Gale  could  have  desired  for  her  about-to-be  prodigal 
daughter.  Olivia  sat  between  her  host  and  Mauregard. 
On  her  host's  right  was  Lady  Barraclough;  then  the 
General,  then  Lydia,  then  Sir  Paul,  facing  Rooke  at  the 
round  table,  then  Mrs.  Fane  Sylvester,  who  was  Maure- 
gard's  left-hand  neighbour.  They  were  by  the  terrace 
windows,  far  from  what  Olivia,  with  her  fresh  mind  play- 
ing on  social  phenomena,  held  then  and  ever  afterwards, 
most  rightly,  to  be  the  maddening  and  human  intercourse- 
destroying  band. 

Not  that  her  first  entrance  down  the  imposing  broad 
staircase,  into  the  lounge  filled  with  mirifically  vestured 
fellow-creatures,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  clashing  rag- 
time imbecility,  did  not  set  all  her  young  nerves  vibrat- 
ing to  the  point  of  delicious  agony.  It  was  like  a  mad 
fanfare  heralding  her  advent  in  a  new  world.  But  soon 
she  found  that  the  blare  of  the  idiot  music  deadened  all 
other  senses.  Before  her  eyes  swayed  black-and-white 
things  whom  at  the  back  of  her  mind  she  recognized  as 
men,  and  various  forms  all  stark  flesh,  flashing  jewels 
and  a  maze  of  colours,  whom  she  knew  to  be  women. 
The  gathering  group  of  her  own  party  seemed  but  figures 
of  a  dream.  Her  unaccustomed  ears  could  not  catch  a 
word  of  the  conventional  gambits  of  conversation  opened, 
on  introduction,  by  her  fellow  guests.  It  was  only  when 
they  passed  between  the  tables  of  the  great  restaurant 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  65 

and  the  horrible  noise  of  the  negroid,  syncopated  parody 
of  tune  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  they  reached  the 
peace  of  the  terrace  side,  that  the  maddening  clatter 
faded  from  her  ears  and  consciousness  of  her  surround- 
ings returned. 

Then  she  surrendered  herself  to  huge  enjoyment. 
Both  her  neighbours  had  been  all  over  the  world  and  seen 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  They  were  vividly 
aware  of  current  events.  Pride  would  not  allow  her  to 
betray  the  fact  that  often  they  spoke  of  matters  far  be- 
yond her  experience  of  men  and  things.  Under  their 
stimulus  she  began  to  regain  the  self  that,  for  the  past 
fortnight,  the  cardboard  boxes  of  London  had  snowed 
under. 

"It's  no  use  asking  me,"  she  said  to  Mauregard, 
"whether  I've  been  to  Monte  Carlo  or  Madagascar  or 
Madame  Tussaud's,  for  I  haven't.  I  haven't  been  any- 
where. I've  somehow  existed  at  the  back  of  Nowhere, 
and  to-night  I've  come  to  life." 

"But  where  did  you  come  from?  The  sea  foam? 
Venus  Anadyomene?" 

"No,  I'm  of  the  other  kind.  I  come  from  far  inland. 
I  believe  they  call  it  Shropshire.  That  oughtn't  to  con- 
vey anything  to  you." 

"Indeed  it  does!"  cried  Mauregard.  "Was  I  not  at 
school  at  Shrewsbury. 

"No?" 

"But  yes.    Three  years.     So  I'm  Shropshire,  too." 

"That's  delightful,"  she  remarked;  "but  it  does 
away  with  my  little  mystery  of  Nowhere." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  with  a  laugh.    He  was  a  fair, 


66  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

bright-eyed  boy  with  a  little  curled-up  moustache  which 
gave  him  the  air  of  a  cherub  playfully  disguised.  "It 
is  the  county  of  mystery.  Doesn't  your  poet  say: 

'Once    in   the   wind   of   morning 

I  ranged  the  thymy  wold; 
The   world-wide   air  was   azure 

And  all  the  brooks  ran  gold.' " 

"That's  from  A  Shropshire  Lad,"  cried  Olivia. 

"Of  course.  So  why  shouldn't  you  have  come  from 
the  wind  of  morning,  the  azure  world-wide  air  or  the 
golden  brook?" 

"That's  beautiful  of  you,"  said  Olivia.  "Well,  why 
shouldn't  I?  It's  more  romantic  and  imaginative  than 
the  commonplace  old  sea.  The  sea  has  been  overdone. 
I  used  to  look  at  it  once  a  year,  and,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  it  always  seemed  to  be  self-conscious,  trying  to  live 

up  to  its  reputation.  But  'the  wind  of  the  morning ' 

Anyhow,  here  I  am." 

"Blown  to  London  by  the  wind  of  a  Shropshire  morn- 
ing." 

Olivia's  spirit  danced  in  the  talk.  With  his  national 
touch  on  the  lighter  emotions,  Mauregard  drew  from  her 
an  exposition  of  the  Dryad's  sensations  on  sudden  con- 
frontation with  modern  life.  To  talk  well  is  a  great 
gift;  to  compel  others  to  talk  well  is  a  greater;  and  the 
latter  gift  was  Mauregard's.  Olivia  put  food  into  her 
mouth,  but  whether  it  was  fish  or  flesh  or  fowl  she  knew 
not.  When  her  host  broke  the  spell  by  an  announcement 
in  her  ear  that  he  had  a  couple  of  boxes  for  "Jazz- Jazz," 
she  became  aware  that  she  was  eating  partridge. 

Mr.  Sydney  Rooke  talked  of  women's  clothes,  of  which 
he  had  an  expert  knowledge.  Lady  Barraclough  chimed 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  67 

in.  Olivia,  fresh  from  the  welter,  spoke  as  one  in  author- 
ity. Now  and  again  she  caught  Lydia's  eye  across  the 
table  and  received  an  approving  nod.  The  elderly  Gen- 
eral regarded  her  with  amused  admiration.  She  began  to 
taste  the  first-fruits  of  social  success.  She  drove  in  a  taxi 
to  the  theatre  with  the  Barracloughs  and  Mrs.  Fane  Syl- 
vester and  sat  with  them  in  a  box  during  the  first  act  of 
the  gay  revue.  For  the  second  act  there  was  a  change 
of  company  and  she  found  herself  next  to  the  General. 
He  had  served  in  India  and  was  familiar  with  the  names 
of  her  mother's  people.  What  Angle-Indian  was  not? 
Long  ago  he  had  met  an  uncle  of  hers;  dead,  poor  chap. 
This  social  placing  gave  her  a  throb  of  pleasure,  setting 
her,  at  least,  in  a  stranger's  eyes,  in  her  mother's  sphere. 
The  performance  over,  they  parted  great  friends. 

General  Wigram  and  Mrs.  Fane  Sylvester  excusing 
themselves  from  going  on  to  Percy's,  the  others  crowded 
into  Sydney  Rooke's  limousine.  The  crash  of  jazz 
music  welcomed  them.  Already  a  few  couples  were 
dancing;  others  were  flocking  in  from  the  theatres. 
They  supped  merrily.  Sydney  Rooke  pointed  out  to 
Olivia's  wondering  eyes  the  stars  of  the  theatrical  firma- 
ment who  condescended  to  walk  the  parquet  floor  of  the 
famous  night  club.  He  also  indicated  here  and  there  a 
perfectly  attired  youth  as  a  professional  dancer. 

"On  the  stage?" 

He  explained  that  they  had  their  professional  partners 
and  gave  exhibition  dances,  showing  the  new  steps. 
They  also  gave  private  lessons.  It  was  the  way  they 
made  their  living.  Olivia  knitted  a  perplexed  brow. 

"It  doesn't  seem  a  very  noble  profession  for  a  young 
man." 


68  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Sydney  Rooke  shrugged  his  shoulders  politely. 

"I'm  with  you  a  thousand  times,  my  dear  Miss  Gale. 
The  parasite,  per  se,  isn't  a  noble  object.  But  what 
would  you  have?  The  noble  things  of  the  past  few  years 
came  to  an  end  a  short  while  ago,  and,  if  I  can  read  the 
times,  reaction  has  already  begun.  In  six  months'  time 
the  noble  fellow  will  be  a  hopeless  anachronism." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Olivia,  "that  all  the  young 
men  will  be  rotten?" 

He  smiled.  "How  direct  you  are!  Disconcerting,  if 
I  may  say  so.  So  positive;  while  I  was  approaching  the 
matter  from  the  negative  side.  There'll  be  a  universal 
loss  of  ideals." 

Olivia  protested.  "The  young  man  has  before  him 
the  reconstruction  of  the  world." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Rooke.  "He  has  done  his  bit.  He 
expects  other  people  to  carry  out  the  reconstructing  busi- 
ness for  him.  All  he  cares  about  is  to  find  a  couple  of 
sixpences  to  jingle  together  in  his  pocket." 

"And  have  these  young  men  who  devote  their  lives  to 
foxtrotting  done  their  bit?" 

He  begged  the  question.  "Pray  be  guided  by  my  proph- 
ecy, Miss  Gale.  Next  year  you  mustn't  mention  war 
to  ears  polite.  These  young  men  are  alive.  They  thank 
God  for  it.  Let  you  and  me  do  likewise." 

This  little  supper-table  talk  was  the  only  cloud  on  a 
radiant  night.  The  Vicomte  de  Mauregard  took  her  to 
dance.  At  first  she  felt  awkward,  knowing  only  the 
simple  steps  of  five  years  ago.  But  instinct  soon  guided 
her,  and  for  two  hours  she  danced  and  danced  in  an  un- 
thinking ecstasy.  The  clattering  and  unmeaning  din 
which  had  dazed  her  on  her  entrance  to  the  Savoy  was 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  69 

now  pregnant  with  physical  significance.  The  tearing 
of  the  strings,  the  clashing  of  the  cymbals,  the  barbaric 
thumping  of  the  drum,  the  sudden  raucous  scream  from 
negro  throats,  set  vibrating  within  her  responsive  chords 
of  an  atavistic  savagery.  When  each  nerve-tearing  ca- 
cophony came  to  its  abrupt  end,  she  joined  breathlessly 
with  the  suddenly  halting  crow  in  eager  clapping  for  the 
encore.  And  then,  when  the  blood-stirring  strings  and 
cymbals  crashed  out,  overpowering  the  staccato  of  hand 
beating  hand,  she  surrendered  herself  with  an  indrawn 
sigh  of  content  to  her  partner's  arm — to  the  rhythm,  to 
the  movement,  to  the  mere  bodily  guidance,  half  conscious 
of  the  proud  flexibility  of  her  frame  under  the  man's  firm 
clasp,  to  something,  she  knew  not  what,  far  remote  from 
previous  experience.  Strange,  too,  the  personality  of  the 
man  did  not  matter.  Paul  Barraclough,  Sydney  Rooke, 
Mauregard,  she  danced  with  them  all  in  turn.  In  her 
pulsating  happiness  she  mixed  them  all  up  together,  so 
that  a  flashing  glance,  liable  to  be  misinterpreted,  pro- 
ceeded from  a  mere  impulse  of  identification.  Now  and 
then,  in  the  swimming  throng  of  men  and  women,  and  the 
intoxication  of  passing  raiment  impregnated  with  scent 
and  cigarette  smoke,  she  exchanged  an  absent  smile  with 
Lydia  and  Lady  Barraclough.  Otherwise  she  scarcely 
realized  their  existence.  She  was  led  panting  by  Maure- 
gard to  a  supper  table  while  he  went  in  search  of  refresh- 
ment. He  returned  with  a  waiter,  apologizing  for  the 
abomination  of  iced  ginger  ale  and  curled  orange  peel, 
which  was  all  that  the  laws  of  the  land  allowed  him  to 
offer.  Horse's  neck,  it  was  called.  She  laughed,  de- 
lighted with  the  name,  and,  after  drinking,  laughed  again, 
delighted  with  the  cool  liquid  so  tingling  on  her  palate. 


70 

"It's  a  drink  for  the  gods,"  she  declared. 
"If  you  offered  it,  the  unfortunate  Bacchus  would 
drink  it  without  a  murmur." 

"Do  you  really  think  it's  so  awful?" 
"Mon  Dieu!"  replied  the  young  Frenchman. 
Then  Lydia  came  up  with  a  dark-eyed,  good-looking 
boy  in  tow,  whom  she  introduced  as  Mr.  Bobbie  Quin- 
ton  and  Olivia  was  surprised  to  recognize  as  one  of  the 
professionals.  She  accepted,  however,  his  invitation  to 
dance  and  went  off  on  his  arm.  She  found  him  a  boy 
of  charming  manners  and  agreeable  voice,  and  in  the 
lightness  and  certainty  of  his  dancing  he  far  outclassed 
her  other  partners.  He  suggested  new  steps.  She  tried 
and  blundered.  She  excused  herself. 

"This  is  the  first  time  I've  danced  for  four  years." 
"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  he.  "You're  a  born  dancer. 
You  only  need  a  few  lessons  to  bring  you  up  to  date. 
What  I  find  in  so  many  of  the  women  I  teach  is  that  they 
not  only  don't  begin  to  understand  what  they're  trying 
to  do,  but  that  they  never  try  to  understand.  You,  on 
the  other  hand,  have  it  instinctively.  But,  of  course,  you 
can't  learn  steps  in  a  place  like  this." 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  give  me  some  lessons?" 
"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  Miss  Gale,"  replied  Mr. 
Bobbie  Quinton  promptly. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Sydney  Rooke  and 
Lydia  deposited  Olivia  at  the  front  door  of  Victoria 
Mansions.  Rooke  stood  hat  in  hand  as  she  entered. 

"I  hope  you've  not  been  too  bored  by  our  little  eve- 
ning." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  71 

"Bored!  It  has  been  just  one  heaven  after  another 
opening  out  before  me." 

"But  not  the  seventh.  If  only  I  could  have  provided 
that!" 

"I'll  find  it  in  the  happiest  and  soundest  night's  rest  I 
ever  had,"  said  Olivia. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THIS  was  life;  magical,  undreamed  of  in  her  wild- 
est Medlow  dreams.  And  thanks  to  Lydia,  she 
had  plunged  into  it  headlong,  after  a  mere  fort- 
night's probation.  There  had  been  no  disillusion.  She 
had  plunged  and  emerged  into  her  kingdom.  London 
conspired  to  strew  her  path  with  roses.  The  Barra- 
cloughs  invited  her  to  a  dinner  party  at  their  home  in 
Kensington.  General  Wigram  offered  her  dinner  and 
theatre  and  convened  to  meet  her  an  old  Indian  crony, 
General  Philimore,  and  his  young  daughter,  Janet.  Phili- 
more  had  known  her  grandfather,  Bagshawe  of  the 
Guides,  when  he  was  a  subaltern,  infinite  ages  ago.  The 
world  was  a  small  place,  after  all.  Olivia,  caring  little 
for  grandfathers  beyond  their  posthumous  social  guar- 
antee, found  youth's  real  sympathy  in  Janet,  who  held 
open  for  her  their  flat  in  Maida  Vale.  Young  Maure- 
gard,  after  their  first  lunch  together  at  the  Carlton, 
seemed  prepared  to  provide  her  with  free  meals  and 
amusements  for  the  rest  of  time.  It  is  true  he  was  madly 
in  love  with  a  Russian  dancer,  whose  eccentric  ways 
and  abominable  treatment  of  him  formed  the  staple  of 
the  conversation  which  he  poured  into  her  very  interested 
and  compassionate  ear.  And,  last,  Bobbie  Quinton  gave 
her  dancing  lessons  at  the  flat  at  the  rate  of  a  guinea 
apiece. 

Christmas  caused  a  break  in  these  social  activities. 

72 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  73 

Lydia  took  her  off  to  Brighton,  where,  meeting  various 
acquaintances  of  her  chaperone  and  making  others  of 
her  own,  she  motored  and  danced  and  danced  and  mo- 
tored, and  in  the  pursuit  of  these  delights  discovered, 
with  a  fearful  joy,  that  she  could  hold  her  own  in  the 
immemorial  conflict  of  sex.  Sydney  Rooke,  having 
driven  down  for  the  day,  occasionally  flashed  through 
the  hotel,  the  eternal  smile  of  youth  on  his  dark,  lined 
face  and  his  gestures  unceasingly  polite.  As  he  passed, 
the  heavens  opened  and  rained  champagne  and  boxes 
of  chocolate  and  hot-house  fruits  and  flowers  and 
embroidered  handbags,  and  once,  a  Pekinese  dog  for 
Lydia.  Once  again,  an  automobile  seemed  about  to 
fall,  but  at  Lydia's  protests  it  melted  in  the  ether. 

"A  dog  and  a  rose  and  a  glass  of  wine,"  said  she,  "are 
a  woman's  due  for  amusing  a  man.  But  a  motor-car 
is  profiteering.  Besides,  it's  bound  to  drive  you  some- 
where in  the  end — either  to  the  flat  of  shame  or  the 
country  house  of  married  respectability:  it  only  depends 
on  who  is  at  the  wheel." 

"I  see,"  said  Olivia.  But  she  didn't.  Sydney  Rooke 
was  a  mystery;  and  Lydia's  attitude  towards  him  was 
more  than  her  inexperience  could  understand. 

Still,  there  she  was  in  the  pleasant  galley  and  she  did 
not  question  what  she  was  doing  in  it.  In  a  dim  way  she 
regarded  it  as  the  inevitable  rescue  vessel  after  universal 
shipwreck.  Her  eyes  were  blinded  by  its  glitter  and  her 
ears  deafened  by  its  music  to  the  welter  of  the  unsalved 
world. 

Just  before  New  Year  she  received  a  letter  from  Bobby 
Quinton.  It  began.  "Dearest  of  Ladies."  Never  be- 
fore having  been  thus  apostrophized,  she  thought  it  pecu- 


74  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

liarly  graceful  and  original.  The  writing  was  refined  and 
exquisitely  clear.  To  his  dearest  of  ladies  the  young  man 
bewailed  her  absence;  life  was  dreary  without  her 
friendship  and  encouragement;  all  this  Christmastide  he 
was  the  loneliest  thing  on  earth;  he  suggested  that  there 
was  no  one  to  love  him — no  mother  or  sisters  to  whom  he 
could  apply  for  comfort;  this  terrible  night  life  to  which 
he,  poor  demobilized  soldier  of  fortune,  was  condemned 
in  order  to  earn  his  bread,  weighed  upon  his  spirits  and 
affected  his  health;  he  envied  his  dearest  of  ladies'  so- 
journ by  the  invigorating  sea;  he  longed  for  the  taste  of 
it;  but  such  health-restoring  rapture  he  gave  her,  in  the 
most  delicate  way,  to  understand,  was  for  fairy  prin- 
cesses and  not  for  the  impecunious  demobbed;  he  counted 
the  days  till  her  return  and  prayed  her  to  bring  back 
a  whiff  of  ozone  on  her  garments  to  revive  the  ever  faith- 
ful one  who  had  the  temerity  to  try  to  teach  her  to  dance. 
A  most  piteous  epistle.  Bobby  Quinton,  by  his  in- 
gratiating ways  and  his  deference  and  his  wit,  had  effaced 
her  original  conception  of  the  type  of  young  men  who 
danced  at  night  clubs  for  their  living.  She  liked  him. 
He  seemed  so  young  and  she,  through  her  long  companion- 
ship with  sorrow,  so  old  in  comparison;  he  seemed  so 
foolish  and  impossible,  and  she  so  wise;  to  her,  remember- 
ing the  helpless  dependence  of  her  father  and  brothers, 
he  seemed  (motherless  and  sisterless  as  he  was)  lost  in 
a  hostile  world.  Besides,  he  was  not  a  nameless  ad- 
venturer. His  father  (long  since  deceased)  had  been  a 
Colonial  Governor.  He  had  been  to  one  of  the  great 
public  schools.  In  short,  he  had  the  birth  and  breeding 
of  a  gentleman.  She  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown  and  went 
with  the  letter  to  Lydia,  full  of  maternal  purpose. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  75 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Their  rooms  had 
a  communicating  door.  She  found  Lydia  daintily  attired 
in  boudoir  cap  and  dressing-jacket,  having  breakfast  in 
bed. 

"The  poor  boy's  dying  for  a  breath  of  sea  air.  It 
would  do  him  an  enormous  amount  of  good.  Do  you 
think  we — of  course,  it  really  would  be  me — but  it  would 
be  better  if  it  appeared  to  be  a  joint  affair — do  you  think 
we  could,  without  offending  him,  ask  him  to  come  down 
here  for  a  couple  of  days  as  our  guest?" 

Lydia,  who  had  read  the  letter  with  a  smile  round  her 
lips,  replied  drily: 

"As  far  as  Bobby  is  concerned — I  really  think  we 
could." 

"And  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,"  flashed  Olivia,  "why 
should  the  silly  fact  of  being  a  woman  prevent  us  from 
helping  a  lame  dog  over  a  stile?" 

"A  he-dog,"  said  Lydia. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Olivia  asked  stoutly. 

Lydia  laughed  in  her  half-cynical,  tolerant  way. 

"Do  as  you  like,  dear.  I  don't  mind.  You're  out  for 
experience,  not  I.  I'd  only  have  you  remark  that  our 
he-dog  friend  Bobby  is  sitting  up  and  begging  for  the 
invitation " 

"Oh!  Ah!"  cried  Olivia,  with  a  fling  of  her  arm, 
"you're  horrid!" 

"Not  a  bit,"  smiled  Lydia.  "I  face  facts,  as  you'll 
have  to  do,  if  you  want  to  find  comfort  in  this  matter- 
of-fact  world.  Have  your  Bobby  down  by  all  means. 
Only  keep  your  eye  on  him." 

"He's  not  my  Bobby,"  said  Olivia  indignantly. 


76  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Our  Bobby,  then,"  said  Lydia,  with  good-natured  in- 
dulgence. 

So  Olivia,  with  the  little  palpitation  of  the  heart  attend- 
ant on  consciousness  of  adventurous  and  (in  Medlow 
eyes,  preposterous)  well-doing,  wrote  to  Bobby  Quinton 
a  letter  whose  gracious  delicacy  would  not  have  wounded 
the  susceptibilities  of  a  needy  Hidalgo  or  an  impoverished 
Highland  chieftain,  and  received  in  reply  a  telegram  of 
eager  acceptance. 

Bobby  appeared  immaculately  vestured,  his  heart  over- 
flowing with  gratitude  at  the  amazing  sweetness  of  his  two 
dear  ladies.  Never  had  man  been  blessed  with  such 
fairy  godmothers.  By  the  fresh  frankness  of  his  ap- 
preciation of  their  hospitality  he  disarmed  criticism. 
A  younger  son  hanging  on  to  the  court  of  Louis  XIII 
never  received  purses  of  gold  from  his  lady  love  with 
less  embarrassed  grace.  He  devoted  himself  to  their 
service.  He  had  the  art  of  tactful  effacement,  and  of  ap- 
pearance at  the  exact  moment  of  welcome.  He  en- 
livened their  meals  with  chatter  and  a  boyish  bright- 
ness that  passed  for  wit. 

To  Olivia,  the  dearest  of  his  dear  ladies,  he  confided 
the  pathetic  history  of  his  life.  A  sunny,  sheltered  corner 
of  the  Pier,  both  sitting  side  by  side  well  wrapped  in  furs, 
conduced  to  intimacy.  How  a  young  man  in  such  a  pre- 
carious financial  position  could  afford  to  wear  a  fur- 
lined  coat  with  a  new  astrachan  collar  it  did  not  strike 
Olivia  to  enquire.  That  he,  like  herself,  was  warm  on 
that  sun-filled  morning,  with  the  sea  dancing  and  sparkling 
away  beyond  them,  and  human  types  around  them  ex- 
uding the  prosperity  of  peace,  seemed  sufficient  for  the 
comfortable  hour.  He  spoke  of  his  early  years  of  ease, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  77 

of  his  modest  patrimony  coming  to  an  end  soon  after 
the  war  broke  out;  of  his  commission  in  a  yeomanry 
regiment;  of  his  heart-break  as  the  months  went  on  and 
the  chance  of  the  regiment  being  sent  to  the  front  grew 
less  and  less;  of  his  exchange  into  a  regiment  of  the  line; 
of  the  rotten  heart  that  gave  out  after  a  month  in  France; 
of  his  grief  at  being  invalided  out  of  the  army  and  his 
struggles  and  anxieties  when  he  returned  to  civil  life, 
branded  as  physically  unfit.  He  had  tried  the  stage, 
musical  comedy,  male  youth  in  the  manless  chorus  being 
eagerly  welcomed;  then,  after  a  little  training,  he  found 
he  had  the  dancer's  gift.  "So  one  thing  led  to  another," 
said  he,  "and  that's  my  history." 

"But  surely,"  said  Olivia,  "all  this  dancing  and  these 
late  hours  must  be  very  bad  for  your  heart." 

He  smiled  sadly.  "What  does  it  matter?  I'm  no  use 
to  anybody,  and  nobody  cares  whether  I'm  dead  or  alive." 

Olivia  protested  warmly.  "The  world  is  crying  out  for 
young  men  of  three-and-twenty.  You  could  be  useful 
in  a  million  ways." 

"Not  a  crock  like  me." 

"You  could  go  into  an  office." 

"Yes.  In  at  one  door  and  out  of  another.  Hope- 
less." 

He  drew  from  a  slim  gold  case  a  Turkish  cigarette — 
Olivia,  minutely  hospitable,  had  put  a  box  of  a  hundred 
in  his  room — and  tapped  it  thoughtfully. 

"After  all,  which  is  better — to  carry  on  with  life  like 
a  worm — which  anyhow  perisheth,  as  the  Bible  tells  us 
— or  to  go  out  like  a  butterfly,  with  a  bit  of  a  swagger?" 

"But  you  mustn't  talk  of  going  out,"  cried  Olivia. 
"It's  indecent." 


78  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Bobby  lighted  his  cigarette.    "Who  would  care?" 

"I,  for  one,"  she  replied. 

Her  health  and  sanity  revolted  against  morbid  ideas. 
He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and,  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  touched  her  coat,  and  he  bent  his  dark  brown 
eyes  upon  her. 

"Would  you  really?"  he  murmured. 

She  flushed,  felt  angry  she  scarce  knew  why,  and  put 
herself  swiftly  on  the  defensive. 

"I  would  care  for  the  life  of  any  young  man.  After 
a  million  killed  it's  precious — and  every  decent  girl  would 
care  the  same  as  I." 

"You're  wonderful ! "  he  remarked. 

"I'm  common  sense  incarnate,"  said  Olivia. 

"You  are.  You're  right.  You're  right  a  thousand 
times,"  he  replied.  "I'll  always  remember  what  you  have 
said  to  me  this  morning." 

At  his  surrender  she  disarmed.  A  corpulent,  opulent 
couple  passed  them  by,  the  lady  wearing  a  cheap  feathered 
hat  and  a  rope  of  pearls  outside  a  Kolinsky  coat,  the 
gentleman  displaying  on  an  ungloved  right  hand,  which 
maintained  in  his  mouth  a  gigantic  cigar,  an  enormous 
ruby  set  in  a  garden  border  of  diamonds. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Bobby,  "I'm  not  as  some  other  men 
are." 

So  they  laughed  and  discussed  the  profiteers  and  walked 
back  to  the  hotel  for  lunch  with  the  sharpened  appetites 
of  twenty. 

When  Bobby  Quinton  left  them,  Olivia  reproached 
herself  for  lack  of  sympathy.  The  boy  had  done  his 
best.  A  rotten,  and  crocky  heart,  who  was  she  to  de- 
spise? But  for  circumstance  he  might  have  done  heroic 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  79 

things.  Perhaps  in  his  defiance  of  physical  disability  he 
was  doing  a  heroic  thing  even  now.  Still.  ...  To  Lydia, 
in  an  ironically  teasing  mood,  she  declared: 

"When  I  do  fall  in  love,  it's  not  going  to  be  with  any 
one  like  Bobby  Quinton.  I  want  a  man — there  would  be 
a  devil  of  a  row,  of  course,  if  he  tried — but  one  capable 
of  beating  me," 

"Bobby  would  do  that,  right  enough,  if  you  gave  him 
the  chance,"  said  Lydia. 

Olivia  reflected  for  a  while.  "Why  have  you  got  your 
knife  into  him  like  that?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"I  haven't,  my  dear  child.  If  I  had,  do  you  think  I 
would  have  allowed  him  to  come  down?  I  live  and  let 
live.  By  letting  live,  I  live  very  comfortably  and  man- 
age, with  moderate  means,  to  have  a  very  good  time." 

Olivia,  already  dressed  for  dinner,  looked  down  on  the 
easy,  creamy,  handsome,  kimono-clad  woman,  curled  up 
like  a  vast  Angora  cat  on  the  hotel  bedroom  sofa,  and  once 
more  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  doubt  whether  the  galley 
of  Lydia  Dawlish  was  the  one  for  her  mother's  daughter 
to  row  in. 

Still,  vogue  la  galore.  When  she  returned  to  London 
there  was  little  else  to  do.  Eating  and  dancing  filled 
many  of  her  days  and  nights.  She  tried  to  recapture  the 
pleasure  of  books  which  had  been  all  her  recreation  for 
years;  but,  although  her  life  was  not  a  continuous  whirl 
of  engagements — for  it  requires  a  greater  vogue  as  a 
pretty  and  unattached  young  woman  than  Olivia  pos- 
sessed to  be  booked  for  fourteen  meals  and  seven  eve- 
nings every  week  of  the  year — she  found  little  time  for 
solitary  intelligent  occupation.  If  she  was  at  a  loose 
end,  Lydia's  hat  shop  provided  an  agreeable  pastime.  Or, 


80  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

as  a  thousand  little  odds  and  ends  of  dress  demanded 
attention,  there  was  always  a  sensuous  hour  or  two  to 
be  spent  at  Pacotille's  and  Luquin's  or  Deville's.  Tea 
companions  seldom  failed.  When  she  had  no  evening 
engagements  she  was  glad  to  get  to  bed;  soon  after  the 
dinner  in  the  downstairs  restaurant,  and  to  sleep  the 
sleep  of  untroubled  youth.  And  all  the  time  the  spell  of 
London  still  held  her  captive.  To  walk  the  crowded 
streets,  to  join  the  feminine  crush  before  the  plate-glass 
windows  of  great  shops,  to  watch  the  strange  birds  in 
the  ornamental  water  in  St.  James's  Park,  to  wander 
about  the  Abbey  and  the  Temple  Gardens,  to  enter  on 
the  moment's  impulse  a  Bond  Street  picture  gallery  or  a 
cinema — all  was  a  matter  of  young  joy  and  thrill.  She 
even  spent  a  reckless  and  rapturous  afternoon  at  Madame 
Tussaud's.  Sometimes  Janet  Philimore  accompanied  her 
on  these  excursions  round  the  monuments  of  London. 
Janet,  who  had  mild  antiquarian  tastes  and  a  proletarian 
knowledge  of  London  traffic,  took  her  by  tubes  and  buses 
to  the  old  City  churches  and  the  Tower,  and  exhibited 
to  her  wondering  gaze  the  Bank  of  England  and  the 
Royal  Exchange  and  Guildhall  up  the  narrow  street.  For 
sentimental  interest,  there  was  always  Bobby  Quinton, 
who  continued  to  maintain  himself  under  her  maternal 
eye.  And  so  the  new  life  went  on. 

It  was  one  night  in  April,  while  she  was  standing  under 
the  porch  of  a  theatre,  Mouregard,  her  escort,  having 
gone  in  search  of  his  dinner-and-theatre  brougham — for 
those  were  days  when  taxis  were  scarce  and  drivers 
haughty — that  she  found  herself  addressed  by  a  long- 
nosed,  one-armed  man,  who  raised  his  hat. 

"Miss  Gale — I'm  sure  you  don't  remember  me." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  81 

For  a  second  or  two  she  could  not  place  him.  Then  she 
laughed. 

"Why— Major  Olifant!"  She  shook  hands.  "What 
are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you  were  buried  among 
your  fossils.  Do  tell  me — how  are  the  hot-water  pipes? 
And  how  is  the  parrot?  Myra  has  no  faith  in  your 
bachelor  housekeeping  and  is  sure  you've  eaten  him  out 
of  desperation." 

He  returned  a  light  answer.  Then,  touching  the  arm 
of  a  man  standing  by  his  side: 

"Miss  Gale — can  I  introduce  Mr.  Alexis  Triona." 

Triona  bowed,  stood  uncovered  while  he  took  the  hand 
which  Olivia  held  out. 

"This  is  my  landlady,"  said  Olifant. 

"He  is  privileged  beyond  the  common  run  of  mortals," 
said  Triona. 

"That's  very  pretty,"  laughed  Olivia,  with  a  swift, 
enveloping  glance  at  the  slight,  inconspicuous  youth  who 
had  done  such  wonderful  things.  "I've  not  thought  of 
myself  as  a  landlady  before.  I  hope  I  don't  look  like 
one." 

Visions  of  myriad  Bloomsbury  lodging-houses  at  whose 
doors  he  had  knocked  after  he  had  left  the  tiny  room  in 
Cherbury  Mews,  and  of  the  strange  middle-aged  women 
of  faded  gentility  whom  he  had  interviewed  within 
those  doors,  rose  before  Triona's  eyes,  and  he  laughed  too. 
For  under  the  strong  electric  light  of  the  portico,  unkind 
to  most  of  the  other  waiting  women,  showing  up  lines  and 
hollows  and  artificialities  of  complexion,  she  looked  as 
fresh  and  young  as  a  child  on  a  May  morning.  The 
open  theatre  wrap  revealed  her  slender  girlish  figure, 
sketchily  clad  in  a  flame-coloured  garment;  and,  with  the 


82  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

light  in  her  eyes  and  her  little  dark  head  proudly  poised, 
she  stood  before  the  man's  fancy  as  the  flame  of  youth. 

She  turned  to  Olifant. 

"Are  you  in  town?" 

"For  a  few  days.     Getting  rid  of  cobwebs." 

"I'd  lend  you  quite  a  nice  broom,  if  you  could  find 
time  to  come  and  see  me.  Besides,  I  do  want  to  hear 
about  my  beloved  Polly." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Olifant. 

They  arranged  that  he  should  come  to  tea  at  the  flat 
the  following  day. 

"And  if  so  famous  a  person  as  Mr.  Triona  would 
honour  me,  too?" 

"Dare  I?"  he  asked. 

"It's  on  the  fifth  floor,  but  there's  a  lift." 

She  saw  Mauregard  hurrying  up.  With  a  "Four- 
thirty,  then,"  and  a  smile  of  adieu,  she  turned  and  joined 
Mauregard. 

"Shall  we  go  on  to  Percy's?"  asked  the  young  French- 
man, standing  at  the  door  of  the  brougham. 

Olivia  conceived  a  sudden  distaste  for  Percy's. 

"Not  unless  you  particularly  want  to." 

"I?     Good  Lord!  "said  he. 

"Why  do  you  ever  go,  if  it  bores  you  like  that?"  she 
asked  as  the  brougham  started  Victoria-wards: 

"Ce  que  jemme  veut,  Mauregard  le  veut" 

"I  suppose  that  is  why  you've  never  made  love  to  me." 

"How?"  he  asked,  surprised  out  of  his  perfect  English 
idiom. 

"I've  wanted  you  not  to  make  love  to  me,  and  you 
haven't." 

"But  how  could  I  make  love  to  you,  when  I  have  been 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  83 

persecuting  you  with  the  confessions  of  my  unhappy  love 
affairs?" 

"One  can  always  find  a  means,"  said  Olivia.  "That's 
why  I  like  you.  You  are  such  a  good  friend." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  he.  Then,  after  a  short  silence: 
"Let  me  be  frank.  What  is  going  on  at  the  back  of 
your  clever  English  mind  is  perfectly  accurate.  I  am 
tempted  to  make  love  to  you  every  time  I  see  you.  What 
man,  with  a  man's  blood  in  his  veins,  wouldn't  be  tempted, 
no  matter  how  much  he  loved  another  woman?  But  I 
say  to  myself:  'Lucien,  you  are  French  to  the  marrow 
of  your  bones.  It  is  the  nature  of  that  marrow  not  to 
offend  a  beautiful  woman  by  not  making  love  to  her. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Lady  Olivia  whose  finger- 
tips I  am  unworthy  to  kiss' — he  touched  them  with  his 
lips,  however,  in  the  most  charming  manner — 'is  English 
to  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  and  it  is  the  nature  of  that 
marrow  to  be  offended  if  a  man  makes  obviously  idle 
love  to  her.'  So,  not  wishing  to  lose  my  Lady  Olivia, 
whose  friendship  and  sympathy  I  value  so  highly,  I  ac- 
cept with  a  grateful  heart  a  position  which  would  be 
incomprehensible  to  the  vast  majority  of  my  fellow- 
countrymen." 

"I'm  so  glad  we've  had  this  out,"  said  Olivia  after  a 
pause.  "I've  been  a  bit  worried.  A  girl  on  her  own  has 
got  to  take  care  of  herself,  you  know.  And  you've  been 
so  beautifully  kind  to  me " 

"It's  because  I  am  proud  to  call  myself  your  humble 
and  devoted  servant,"  replied  Mauregard. 

Olivia  went  to  bed  contented  with  this  frank  explana- 
tion. Men  had  already  made  love  to  her  in  a  manner 
which  had  ruffled  her  serene  consciousness,  and  she 


84  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

found  it,  not  like  Lydia  Dawlish,  a  cynical  game  of  wit, 
but  a  disagreeable  business,  to  parry  their  advances. 
Bobby  Quinton,  of  course,  she  could  put  into  a  corner 
like  a  naughty  child,  whenever  he  became  foolish.  But 
Mauregard,  consistently  respectful  and  entertaining,  had 
been  rather  a  puzzle.  Now  that  way  was  clear. 

For  a  while  she  did  not  associate  her  meeting  Blaise 
Olifant  with  her  distaste  for  the  night  club.  In  the 
flush  of  her  new  existence  she  had  almost  forgotten  him. 
There  had  been  no  reason  to  correspond.  His  rent  was 
paid  through  the  Trivett  and  Gale  office.  His  foraminif- 
erous  pursuits  did  not  appeal  to  a  girl's  imagination. 
Now  and  then  she  gave  a  passing  thought  to  what  was 
happening  in  her  old  home,  and  vaguely  remembered  that 
the  romantically  named  traveller  was  there  as  a  guest. 
But  that  was  all.  Now,  the  presence  of  Olifant  had 
suddenly  recalled  the  little  scene  in  her  mother's  room, 
when  she  had  suddenly  decided  to  let  him  have  the 
house;  he  had  brought  with  him  a  breath  of  that  room; 
a  swift  memory  of  the  delicate  water-colours  and  the  books 
by  the  bedside,  the  Pensees  de  Pascal  and  The  Imitation 
of  Christ.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  had  felt  a  curious  attrac- 
tion towards  the  companion,  the  boy  with  the  foreign 
manner  and  the  glistening  eyes  and  the  suffering-stricken 
face.  Both  men,  as  she  conceived  them,  belonged  to  the 
higher  intellectual  type  that  had  their  being  remote  from 
the  inanities  of  dissipation.  So,  impelled  by  a  muddled 
set  of  motives,  she  suddenly  found  herself  abhorring 
Percy's.  She  read  herself  into  a  state  of  chastened  self- 
approbation,  and  then  to  sleep,  with  Rupert  Brooke's 
poems. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OLIVIA  sat  by  her  little  table,  dispensing  tea  and 
accepting  homage  with  a  flutter  of  pleasure  at 
her  heart.  She  had  been  oddly  nervous — she 
who  had  entertained  the  stranger  Olifant,  at  Medlow, 
with  the  greatest  self-confidence,  and  had  grown  to  regard 
tea  parties  at  the  flat  as  commonplaces  of  existence.  The 
two  men  had  drifted  in  from  another  sphere.  She  had  re- 
viewed her  stock  of  conversation  and  found  it  shop-worn 
after  five  months'  exposure.  The  most  recent  of  her 
views  on  "Hullo,  People!"  and  on  the  food  at  the  Carlton 
had  appeared  unworthy  of  the  notice  of  the  soldier- 
scientist  and  the  adventurous  man  of  letters.  She  had 
received  them  with  unusual  self-consciousness.  This, 
however,  a  few  moments  of  intercourse  dispelled.  They 
had  come,  they  had  seen  and  she  had  conquered. 

"At  first  I  didn't  recognize  you,"  said  Olifant.  "I 
had  to  look  twice  to  make  sure." 

"Have  I  changed  so  much?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  a  trick  of  environment,"  he  said,  with  a  smile 
in  his  dark  blue  eyes. 

The  feminine  in  her  caught  the  admiration  behind  them 
and  delightedly  realized  his  confusion,  the  night  before,  at 
her  metamorphosis  from  the  prim  little  black-frocked 
Quakeress  into  the  radiant  creature  in  furs  and  jewels 
and  flame-coloured  audacity. 

"And  now  you're  quite  sure  it  is  me — or  I — which  is 
it?" 

85 


86  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I'm  quite  sure  it's  my  charming  landlady  who  for 
the  second  time  feeds  the  hungry  wanderer.  Miss  Gale 
Triona,  makes  a  specialty  of  it." 

"Then,  indeed,  I'm  peculiarly  fortunate,"  said  Triona, 
taking  a  tomato  sandwich.  "Will  you  feed  me  again, 
Miss  Gale?" 

"As  often  as  you  like,"  she  laughed. 

"That's  rather  a  rash  promise  to  make  to  a  professional 
vagabond  like  myself.  When  he  has  begged  his  way 
for  months  and  months  at  a  time,  he  comes  to  regard 
other  people's  food  as  his  by  divine  right." 

"Have  you  done  that?"  she  asked. 

"Much  worse.    You  don't  keep  chickens?" 

"Not  here." 

"That's  a  good  thing.  I  think  I'm  the  world's  cham- 
pion chicken-stealer.  It's  a  trick  of  legerdemain.  You 
dive  at  a  chicken,  catch  it  by  its  neck,  whirl  it  round 
and  stick  it  under  your  jacket  all  in  one  action.  The 
unconscious  owner  has  only  to  turn  his  back  for  a  second. 
Then,  of  course,  you  hide  in  a  wood  and  have  an  orgy." 

"He  is  not  the  desperate  character  he  makes  himself 
out  to  be,"  said  Olifant.  "He  spent  two  months  with 
me  at  'The  Towers'  without  molesting  one  of  your 
hens." 

"Then  you're  not  still  there?"  she  asked  Triona. 

"Alas,  no,"  he  replied.  "I  suppose  I  have  the  fever  of 
perpetual  change.  I  had  a  letter  from  Finland  saying 
that  my  presence  might  be  of  use  there.  So  I  have  spent 
this  spring  in  Helsingfors.  I  am  only  just  back." 

"It  seems  wonderful  to  go  and  come  among  all  these 
strange  places,"  said  Olivia. 

"One  land  is  much  the  same  as  another  in  essentials," 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  87 

replied  Triona.  "To  carry  on  life  you  have  to  eat  and 
sleep.  There's  no  difference  between  a  hard-boiled  egg 
in  Somerset  and  a  hard-boiled  egg  in  Tobolsk.  And  sleep 
is  sleep,  whether  you're  putting  up  at  Claridge's  or  the 
Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star.  And  human  nature,  stripped 
of  the  externals  of  habits,  customs,  traditions,  ceremo- 
nials, is  unchanging  from  one  generation,  and  from  one 
latitude  or  longitude,  to  another." 

"But,"  objected  Olivia,  with  a  flash  of  logic,  "if  Lon- 
don's the  same  as  Tobolsk,  why  yearn  for  Tobolsk?" 

"It's  the  hope  of  finding  something  different — the  ignis 

jatuus,  the  Jack  o'  Lantern,  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  caught  the 
flash  of  his  eyes.  "It's  the  only  thing  that  counts  in 
human  progress.  The  Will-o'-the-Wisp.  It  leaves  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand  flounder- 
ing in  a  bog — but  the  thousandth  man  wins  through  to 
the  Land  of  Promise.  There  is  only  one  thing  in  life 
to  do,"  he  continued,  clenching  his  nervous  hands  and 
looking  into  the  distance  away  from  Olivia,  "and  that 
is  never  to  lose  faith  in  your  ignis  jatuus — to  compel  it 
to  be  your  guiding  star.  Once  you've  missed  grip  of  it, 
you're  lost." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  Russian  idealism,"  said  Olifant. 

"When  will  you  learn,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Triona 
quietly,  "that  I'm  not  a  Russian?  I'm  as  English  as  you 
are." 

"It's  your  idealism  that  is  Russian,"  said  Olivia. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  asked,  deferentially.  "Well, 
perhaps  it  is.  In  England  you  keep  your  ideals  hidden 
until  some  great  catastrophe  happens,  then  you  bring 
them  out  to  help  you  along.  Otherwise  it  is  immodest 


88  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

to  expose  them.  In  Russia,  ideals  are  exposed  all  the 
time,  so  that  when  the  time  for  their  application  comes, 
they're  worn  so  thin  they're  useless.  Poor  Russia,"  he 
sighed.  "It  has  idealized  itself  to  extinction.  All  my 
boyhood's  companions — the  students,  the  intelligentsia, 
as  they  called  themselves,  who  used  to  sit  and  talk  and 
talk  for  hours  of  their  wonderful  theories — you  in  Eng- 
land have  no  idea  how  Russian  visionary  can  talk — 
and  I  learned  to  talk  with  them — where  are  they  now? 
The  fortunate  were  killed  in  action.  The  others,  either 
massacred  or  rotting  in  prisons,  or  leading  the  filthy 
hunted  lives  of  pariah  dogs.  The  Beast  arose  like  a 
foul  shape  from  the  Witch's  cauldron  of  their  talk  .  .  . 
and  devoured  them.  Yes,  perhaps  the  stolid  English  way 
is  the  better." 

"What  about  your  Will-o'-the-Wisp  theory?"  asked 
Olivia. 

He  threw  out  his  hands.  "Ah!  That  is  the  secret. 
Keep  it  to  yourself.  Don't  point  it  out  to  a  thousand 
people,  and  say:  'Join  me  in  the  chase  of  the  Will-o'- 
the-Wisp.'  For  the  thousand  other  people  will  each  see 
an  ignis  fatuus  of  their  own  and  point  it  out,  so  that  there 
are  myriads  of  them,  and  your  brain  reels,  and  you're 
swallowed  up  in  the  bog  to  a  dead  certainty.  In  plain 
words,  every  human  being  must  have  his  own  individual 
and  particular  guiding  star  which  he  must  follow  stead- 
fastly. My  guiding  star  is  not  yours,  Miss  Gale,  nor 
Olifant's.  We  each  have  our  own." 

Olifant  smiled  indulgently.  "Moscovus  loquitur,"  he 
murmured. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  89 

"He  says,  my  dear  Miss  Gale,  that  the  Russian  will 
ever  be  talking." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  don't  approve,"  said  she. 

Triona  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  made  a  little 
bow.  She  went  on,  casting  a  rebuking  glance  at  Olifant, 
who  had  begun  to  laugh: 

"After  all,  it's  more  entertaining  and  stimulating  to 
talk  about  ideas  than  about  stupid  facts.  Most  people 
seem  to  regard  an  idea  as  a  disease.  They  shy  at  it  as  if 
it  were  smallpox." 

Olifant  protested.  He  was  capable  of  playing  football 
with  ideas  as  any  man.  Self-satirical,  he  asked  was  he 
not  of  Balliol?  Olivia,  remembering  opportunely  a  recent 
Cambridge  dinner  neighbour's  criticism  of  the  famous 
Oxford  College — at  the  time  it  had  bored  her  indifferent 
mind — and  an  anecdote  with  which  he  drove  home  his 
remarks,  that  of  a  sixth-form  contemporary  who  had 
written  to  him  in  the  prime  flush  of  his  freshman's  term: 
"Balliol  is  not  a  college;  it  is  a  School  of  Thought,"  cried 
out: 

"Isn't  that  rather  a  crude  metaphor  for  Balliol?" 

They  quarrelled,  drifted  away  from  the  point,  swept 
Triona  into  a  laughing  argument  on  she  knew  not  what. 
All  she  knew  was  that  these  two  men  were  giving  her  the 
best  of  themselves;  these  two  picked  men  of  thought  and 
action;  that  they  were  eager  to  interest  her,  to  catch  her 
word  of  approval;  that  some  dancing  thing  within  her 
brain  played  on  their  personalities  and  kept  them  at 
concert  pitch. 

She  was  conscious  of  a  new  joy,  a  new  sense  of  power, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Myra  showed  in  Lydia  Daw- 


90  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

lish.  She  entered,  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  furs 
and  creamy  worldliness.  Aware  of  the  effect  of  implicit 
scorn  of  snobbery,  she  besought  Olifant  for  news  of  Med- 
low,  dear  Sleepy  Hollow,  which  she  had  not  seen  for 
years.  Had  he  come  across  her  beloved  eccentric  of  a 
father — old  John  Freke?  Olifant  gave  her  the  best  of 
news.  He  had  lately  joined  the  committee  of  the  local 
hospital,  of  which  Mr.  Freke  was  Chairman;  professed 
admiration  for  John  Freke's  exceptional  gifts. 

"If  he  had  gone  out  into  the  world,  he  might  have  been 
a  great  man,"  said  Lydia. 

"He  is  a  great  man,"  replied  Olifant. 

"What's  the  good  of  being  great  hi  an  overlooked 
chunk  of  the  Stone  Age  like  Medlow?" 

She  spoke  with  her  lazy  vivacity,  obviously,  to  Olivia's 
observant  eye,  seeking  to  establish  herself  with  the  two 
men.  But  the  spell  of  the  afternoon  was  broken.  As 
soon  as  politeness  allowed,  Olifant  and  Triona  took  their 
leave.  Had  it  not  been  for  Lydia  they  would  have  stayed 
on  indefinitely,  forgetful  of  time,  showing  unconscious, 
and  thereby  all  the  more  flattering,  homage  to  their 
hostess.  In  a  mild  way  she  anathematized  Lydia;  but 
found  a  compensating  tickle  of  pleasure  in  the  lady's 
failure  to  captivate. 

To  Olifant  she  said: 

"Now  that  you  know  where  your  landlady  lives,  I  hope 
you  won't  go  on  neglecting  her." 

But  she  waited  for  Triona  to  say: 

"Shall  I  ever  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again?" 

"It  all  depends  whether  you  can  be  communicated 
with,"  she  replied.  "Alexis  Triona,  Esq.,  Planet  Earth, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  91 

Solar  System,  is  an  imposing  address;  but  it  might  puzzle 
the  General  Post  Office." 

"The  Vanloo  Hotel,  South  Kensington,  is  very  much 
more  modest." 

"It's  well  for  people  to  know  where  they  can  find 
one  another,"  said  Olivia. 

"That  you  should  do  me  the  honour  of  the  slightest 
thought  of  finding  me "  he  began. 

"We'll  fix  up  something  soon,"  Lydia  interrupted. 
"I'm  Miss  Gale's  elderly,  adopted  aunt." 

Olivia  felt  a  momentary  shock,  as  though  a  tiny  bolt 
of  ice  had  passed  through  her.  She  sped  a  puzzled  glance 
at  a  Lydia  blandly  unconscious  of  wrong-doing. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Triona  politely. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  two— 

"What  nice  men,"  said  Lydia. 

"Yes,  they're  rather — nice,"  replied  Olivia,  wondering 
why,  in  trying  to  qualify  them  in  her  mind,  this  particular 
adjective  had  never  occurred  to  her.  They  were  male, 
they  spoke  perfect  English,  they  were  well-mannered — 
and  so,  of  course,  they  were  nice.  But  it  was  such  an  in- 
adequate word,  completing  no  idea.  Lydia's  atrophied 
sense  of  differentiation  awoke  the  laughter  in  her  eyes. 
Nice!  So  were  Bobby  Quinton,  Sydney  Rooke,  Maure- 
gard,  a  score  of  other  commonplace  types  in  Lydia's  set. 
But  that  Blaise  Olifant  and  Alexis  Triona  should  be 
lumped  with  them  in  this  vaguely  designated  category, 
seemed  funny. 

Lydia  went  on: 

"Major  Olifant,  of  course,  I  knew  from  your  descrip- 
tion of  him;  but  the  other — the  young  man  with  the 
battered  face — I  didn't  place  him." 


92  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Triona — Alexis  Triona." 

"I  seem  to  have  heard  the  name,"  said  Lydia.  "He 
writes  or  paints  or  lectures  on  Eugenics  or  something." 

"He  has  written  a  book  on  Russia,  replied  Olivia  drily. 

"I'm  fed  up  with  Russia,"  said  Lydia  dismissively. 
"Even  if  I  wasn't — I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  it. 
I  came  in  about  something  quite  different.  What  do  you 
think  has  happened?  Sydney  Rooke  has  asked  me  to 
marry  him." 

Olivia's  eyes  flashed  with  the  interest  of  genuine  youth 
in  a  romantic  proposal  of  marriage. 

"My  dear!"  she  cried.    "How  exciting!" 

"I  wish  it  were,"  said  Lydia,  in  her  grey-eyed  calmness. 
"Anyhow,  it's  a  bit  upsetting.  Of  course  I  knew  that 
he  was  married — separated  years  and  years  from  his  wife. 
Whether  he  couldn't  catch  her  out,  or  she  couldn't  catch 
him  out,  I  don't  know.  But  they  couldn't  get  a  divorce. 
She  was  a  Catholic  and  wouldn't  stand  for  the  usual 
arrangement.  Now  she's  dead.  Died  a  couple  of  months 
ago  in  California.  He  came  in  this  morning  with  Lady 
Northborough — introducing  her — the  first  time  I  had  seen 
the  woman.  And  he  sat  by  and  gave  advice  while  she 
chose  half  a  dozen  hats.  His  judgment's  infallible,  you 
know.  He  saw  her  to  her  car  and  came  back.  'Now 
I've  done  you  a  good  turn,'  he  said,  'perhaps  you'll  do 
me  one.  Give  me  five  minutes  with  you  in  your  cubby- 
hole.' We  went  into  my  little  office,  and  then  he  sprang 
this  on  me — the  death  of  his  wife  and  the  proposal." 

"But  it  must  have  been  exciting,"  Olivia  protested. 
"Yet "  she  knitted  her  brow,  "why  the  Lady  North- 
borough  barrage?" 

"It's  his  way,"  said  Lydia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  93 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  said  I  would  give  him  my  answer  to-night." 

"Well?" 

"I  don't  know.  He's  charming.  He's  rolling  in  money 
— you  remember  the  motor-car  I  turned  down  for  ob- 
vious reasons — he  knows  all  kinds  of  nice  people — he's 
fifty " 

"Fifty!"  cried  Olivia,  aghast.  To  three  and  twenty 
fifty  is  senile. 

"The  widow's  ideal." 

"It's  exciting,  but  not  romantic,"  said  Olivia. 

"Romance  perished  on  the  eleventh  of  November, 
1918.  Since  then  it  has  been  'Every  woman  for  herself 
and  the  Devil  take  the  hindmost.'  Are  you  aware  that 
there  are  not  half  enough  men  to  go  round?  So  when  a 
man  with  twenty  thousand  a  year  comes  along,  a  woman 
has  to  think  like— like " 

"Like  Aristotle  or  Herbert  Spencer,  or  the  sailor's 
parrot,"  said  Olivia.  "Of  course,  dear.  But  is  he  so 
dreadfully  wealthy  as  all  that?  What  does  he  do?" 

"He  attends  Boards  of  Directors.  As  far  as  I  can  make 
out  he  belongs  to  a  Society  for  the  Promotion  of  Un- 
christian Companies." 

"Don't  you  care  for  him?" 

Lydia  shook  her  exquisitely  picture-hatted  head — she 
was  a  creamy  Gainsborough  or  nothing. 

"In  that  way,  not  a  bit.  Of  course,  he  has  been  a  real 
good  friend  to  me.  But  after  all — marriage — it's  diffi- 
cult to  explain " 

In  spite  of  her  cynicism,  Lydia  had  always  respected 
the  girlhood  of  her  friend.  But  Olivia  flung  the  scorn- 
ful arm  of  authority. 


94  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"There's  no  need  of  explanation.  I  know  all  about 
it." 

"In  that  case "  said  Lydia.  She  paused,  lit  a 

cigarette,  and  with  her  large,  feline  grace  of  writhing 
curves,  settled  herself  more  comfortably  in  the  corner 
of  the  couch — "I  thought  you  would  bring  a  fresh  mind 
to  bear  upon  things.  But  no  matter.  In  that  case, 
dear,  what  would  you  advise?" 

Before  the  girl's  mental  vision  arose  the  man  in  ques- 
tion— the  old  young  man,  the  man  of  fifty,  with  the  air 
and  manner  and  dress  of  the  man  of  twenty-five;  his 
mark  of  superficial  perfection  that  hid  God  knew  what 
strange  sins,  stoniness  of  heart  and  blight  of  spirit.  She 
saw  him  in  his  impeccable  devotion  to  Lydia.  But 
something  in  the  imagined  sight  of  him  sent  a  shiver 
through  her  pure,  yet  not  ignorant,  maidenhood:  some- 
thing of  which  the  virginal  within  her  defied  definition, 
yet  something  abhorrent.  The  motor-car  had  failed; 
now  the  wedding-wing.  She  recaptured  the  fleeting,  dis- 
quieting sense  of  Lydia  on  her  first  evening  in  London — 
the  woman's  large  proclamation  of  sex.  Instinctively 
she  transferred  her  impression  to  the  man,  and  threw  a 
swift  glance  at  Lydia  lying  there,  milk  and  white,  recep- 
tive. 

A  word  once  read  and  forgotten — a  word  in  some 
French  or  English  novel — sprang  to  her  mind,  scraped 
clear  from  the  palimpsest  of  memory.  Desirable.  A 
breath-catching,  hateful  word.  She  stood  aghast  and 
shrinking  on  the  edge  of  knowledge. 

"My  darling  child,  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  95 

Olivia  stared  at  the  voice,  as  thought  awakening  from 
a  dream. 

"I  think  it's  horrible,"  she  cried. 

"What?" 

"Marying  a  man  you  can  no  more  love  than "  Ugh! 

I  wouldn't  marry  him  for  thousands  of  millions." 

"Why?     I  want  to  know." 

But  the  shiver  in  the  girl's  soul  could  not  be  expressed 
in  words. 

"It's  a  question  of  love,"  she  said  lamely. 

Lydia  laughed,  called  her  a  romantic  child.  It  was 
not  a  question  of  love,  but  of  compatible  temperament. 
Marriage  wasn't  a  week-end,  but  a  life-end,  trip.  People 
had  to  get  accustomed  to  each  other  in  dressing-gowns 
and  undress  manners.  She  herself  was  sure  that  Sydney 
Rooke  would  wear  the  most  Jermyn  Street  of  dressing- 
gowns,  at  any  rate.  But  the  manners? 

"They'll  always  be  as  polished  as  his  finger-nails," 
said  Olivia. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  speak  like  that  of  Sydney," 
cried  Lydia,  with  some  show  of  spirit.  "It's  rather  un- 
grateful seeing  how  kind  he  has  been  to  you." 

Which  was  true;  Olivia  admitted  it. 

"But  the  man  who  is  kind  to  you,  in  a  social  way,  isn't 
always  the  man  you  would  like  to  marry." 

"But  it's  I,  not  you,"  Lydia  protested,  "who  am 
going  to  marry  him." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  marry  him?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  else  to  do,"  replied  Lydia,  and 
she  went  again  over  the  twenty  thousand  a  year  argument. 
Olivia  saw  that  her  hesitations  were  those  of  a  cool  brain 


96  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

and  not  of  an  ardent  spirit,  and  she  knew  that  the  brain 
had  already  come  to  a  decision. 

"I  quite  see,"  said  Lydia  half  apologetically,  "that 
you  think  I  ought  to  wait  until  I  fall  in  love  with  a  man. 
But  I  should  have  to  wait  till  Doomsday.  I  thought  I 
was  in  love  with  poor  dear  Fred.  But  I  wasn't.  I'm  not 
that  sort.  If  Fred  had  gone  on  living  I  should  have 
gone  on  letting  him  adore  me  and  have  been  perfectly 
happy — so  long  as  he  didn't  expect  me  to  adore  him." 

"Doesn't  Mr.  Rooke  expect  you  to  adore  him?"  asked 
Olivia. 

Lydia  laughed,  showing  her  white  teeth,  and  shook  a 
wise  and  mirthful  head. 

"I'm  convinced  that  was  the  secret  of  his  first  un- 
happy marriage." 

"What?" 

"The  poor  lady  adored  him  and  bored  him  to  frenzy." 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  the  half-hour  after 
six.  Lydia  rose.  She  must  go  home  and  dress.  She  was 
dining  with  Rooke  at  Claridge's  at  eight. 

"I'm  so  glad  we've  had  this  little  talk,"  she  said.  "I 
felt  I  must  tell  you." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  my  advice,"  said  Olivia. 

"Oh,  you  silly!"  answered  Lydia,  gathering  her  furs 
around  her. 

They  exchanged  the  conventional  parting  kiss.  Oli- 
via accompanied  her  to  the  landing.  When  the  sum- 
moned life  appeared  and  its  doors  clashed  open,  Lydia 
said: 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  take  over  that  hat  shop  at  a 
valuation,  would  you?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  cried  the  astounded  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  97 

Lydia  laughed  and  waved  a  grey-gloved  hand  and  dis- 
appeared downwards,  like  the  Lady  of  the  Venusberg 
in  an  antiquated  opera. 

Olivia  re-entered  the  flat  thoughtfully,  and  sat  down  in 
an  arm-chair  by  the  tiny  wood  fire  in  the  sitting-room 
grate.  Lydia  and  Lydia's  galley,  and  all  that  it  signified, 
disturbed  her  more  than  ever.  They  seemed  not  only 
to  have  no  ideals  even  as  ballast,  but  to  have  flung  them 
overboard  like  so  many  curse-ridden  Jonahs.  To  what 
soulless  land  'was  she  speeding  with  them?  And  not 
only  herself,  but  the  England,  of  which  she,  as 
much  as  any  individual,  was  a  representative  unit?  Was 
it  for  the  reaching  of  such  a  haven  that  her  brothers  had 
given  their  lives?  Was  it  that  she  should  reach  such 
a  haven  that  her  mother,  instinct  with  heroic  passion, 
had  sent  Stephen  Gale  forth  to  death?  Was  it  to  guide 
the  world  on  this  Lydian  path  that  Blaise  Olifant  had 
given  an  arm  and  young  Triona  had  cheerfully  endured 
Dantesque  torturings? 

Myra  came  in  and  began  to  remove  the  tea-things — 
Myra,  gaunt,  with  her  impassive,  inexpressible  face, 
correct  in  black;  silk  blouse,  stuff  skirt,  silk  apron. 
Olivia,  disturbed  in  her  efforts  to  solve  the  riddle  of  ex- 
istence, swerved  in  her  chair  and  half-humorously  sought 
the  first  human  aid  to  hand. 

"Myra,  tell  me.     Why  do  you  go  on  living?" 

Myra  made  no  pause  in  her  methodical  activity. 

"God  put  me  into  the  world  to  live.  It's  my  duty  to 
live,"  she  replied  in  her  toneless  way.  "And  God  or- 
dained me  to  live  so  that  I  should  do  my  duty." 

"And  what  do  you  think  is  your  duty?"  Olivia  asked. 

"You,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  ought  to  know  that," 


98  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

said  Myra,  holding  the  door  open  with  her  foot,  so  as  to 
clear  a  passage  for  the  tea-tray. 

Olivia  rested  her  elbows  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  and 
put  her  finger-tips  to  her  temples.  She  felt  at  once  re- 
buked and  informed  with  knowledge.  Never  before  had 
the  Sphinx-like  Myra  so  revealed  herself.  Probably  she 
had  not  had  the  opportunity,  never  having  found  her- 
self subjected  to  such  direct  questioning.  Being  so  sub- 
jected, she  replied  with  the  unhesitating  directness  of 
her  nature.  The  grace  of  humility  descended  on  Olivia. 
What  fine  spirit  can  feel  otherwise  than  humble  when 
confronted  with  the  selfless  devotion  of  a  fellow-being? 
And  further  humbled  was  she  by  the  implicit  declaration 
of  an  ideal,  noble  and  purposeful,  such  as  her  mind  for 
the  past  few  months  had  not  conceived.  This  elderly, 
spinsterly  foundling,  child  of  naught,  had,  according  to 
her  limited  horizon,  a  philosophy — nay,  more — a  religion 
of  life  which  she  unswervingly  followed.  According  to 
the  infinite  scale  whereby  human  values  ultimately  are 
estimated,  Olivia  judged  herself  sitting  in  the  galley  of 
Lydia  Dawlish  as  of  far  less  account  than  Myra,  her 
butt  and  her  slave  from  earliest  infancy. 

She  rose  and  looked  around  the  prettiness  of  taste  and 
colour  with  which  she  had  transformed  the  original  dully- 
furnished  room,  and  threw  up  her  arm  in  a  helpless  ges- 
ture. What  did  it  all  mean?  What  was  she  doing  there? 
On  what  was  she  squandering  the  golden  hours  of  her 
youth?  To  what  end  was  she  using  such  of  a  mind  and 
such  of  a  soul  as  God  had  given  her?  At  last,  to  sell  her- 
self for  furs  and  food  and  silk  cushions,  and  for  the  so- 
ciety of  other  women  clamorous  of  nothing  but  furs  and 
food  and  silk  cushions,  to  a  man  like  Sydney  Rooke — 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  99 

without  giving  him  anything  in  return  save  her  outward 
shape  for  him  to  lay  jewels  on  and  exhibit  to  the  unin- 
spiring world  wherein  he  dwelt? 

Far  better  return  to  Medlow  and  lead  the  life  of  a 
clean  woman. 

Myra  entered.     "You're  not  dining  out  to-night?" 

"No,  thank  God!"  said  Olivia.  "I'll  slip  on  any  old 
thing  and  go  downstairs." 

She  dined  in  her  little  quiet  corner  of  the  restaurant, 
and  after  dinner  took  up  Triona's  book,  Through  Blood 
and  Snow,  which  she  had  bought  that  morning,  her  pre- 
vious acquaintance  with  it  having  been  made  through  a 
circulating  library.  In  the  autumn  she  had  read  and  been 
held  by  its  magic;  but  casually  as  she  had  read  scores 
of  books.  But  now  it  was  instinct  with  a  known  yet 
baffling  personality.  It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
before  she  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  tastes  of  Alexis  Triona  were  not  such  as  to 
lead  him  into  extravagant  living  on  the  fruits  of 
his  literary  success.  To  quality  of  food  he  was 
indifferent;  wine  he  neither  understood  nor  cared  for; 
in  the  use  of  other  forms  of  alcohol  he  was  abstemious; 
unlike  most  men  bred  in  Russia  he  smoked  moderately, 
preferring  the  cigarettes  he  rolled  himself  from  Virginia 
tobacco  to  the  more  expensive  Turkish  or  Egyptian 
brands.  His  attire  was  simple.  He  would  rather  walk 
than  be  driven;  and  he  regarded  his  back-bedroom  at 
the  top  of  the  Vanloo  Hotel  as  a  luxurious  habitation. 

He  had  broken  away  from  the  easeful  life  at  Medlow 
because,  as  he  explained  to  Blaise  Olifant,  it  frightened 
him. 

"I'm  up  against  nothing  here,"  said  he. 

"You're  up  against  your  novel,"  replied  Olifant.  "A 
man's  work  is  always  his  fiercest  enemy." 

Triona  would  not  accept  the  proposition.  He  and  his 
novel  were  one  and  indivisible.  Together  they  must 
fight  against  something — he  knew  not  what.  Perhaps, 
fight  against  time  and  opportunity.  They  wanted  the 
tense,  stolen  half -hours  which  he  and  his  other  book  had 
enjoyed.  Would  Olifant  think  him  ungrateful  if  he 
picked  up  and  went  on  his  mission  to  Helsingfors? 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Olifant,  "the  man  who  resents 
a  friend  developing  his  own  personality  in  his  own  way 
doesn't  deserve  to  have  a  friend." 

IOO 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  101 

"It's  like  you  to  say  that,"  cried  Triona.  "I  shall  al- 
ways remember.  When  I  get  back  I  shall  let  you  know." 

So  Alexis  Triona  vanished  from  a  uninspiring  Medlow, 
and  two  months  afterwards  gave  Olifant  his  address  at 
the  Vanloo  Hotel.  Olifant,  tired  by  a  long  spell  of  close 
work,  went  up  for  an  idle  week  in  London. 

"Come  back  and  carry  on  as  before,"  he  suggested. 

But  Triona  ran  his  fingers  through  his  brown  hair  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"No.  The  wise  man  never  tries  to  repeat  a  past  pleas- 
ure. As  a  wise  old  Russian  friend  of  mine  used  to  say 
— never  relight  a  cigar." 

So  after  a  few  days  of  pleasant  companionship  in  the 
soberer  delights  of  town,  Blaise  Olifant  returned  to  Med- 
low and  Triona  remained  in  his  little  back  room  in  the 
Vanloo  Hotel. 

One  night,  a  week  or  so  after  his  visit  to  Olivia  Gale, 
he  threw  down  his  pen,  read  over  the  last  sheet  that  he 
had  written,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  tore  it 
up.  Suddenly  he  discovered  that  he  could  not  breathe 
in  the  stuffy  bedroom.  He  drew  back  the  curtains  and 
opened  the  window  and  looked  out  on  myriad  chimney- 
pots and  a  full  moon  shining  on  them  from  a  windless 
sky.  The  bright  air  filled  his  lungs.  Desire  for  wider 
spaces  beneath  the  moon  shook  him  like  a  touch  of  claus- 
trophobia. He  thrust  on  the  coat  which  he  had  discarded, 
seized  a  hat,  and,  switching  off  the  light,  hurried  from  the 
room.  He  went  out  into  the  streets,  noiseless  save  for 
the  rare,  swift  motors  that  flashed  by  like  ghosts  fleeing 
terrified  from  some  earthly  doom. 

He  walked  and  walked  until  he  suddenly  realized  that 


102  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

he  had  emerged  from  Whitehall  and  faced  the  moonlight 
beauty  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  standing  in  majestic 
challenge  against  the  sky,  and  the  Abbey  sleeping  in  its 
centuries  of  dreams. 

Away  across  the  Square,  by  Broad  Sanctuary,  was  the 
opening  of  a  great  thoroughfare,  and,  as  his  eyes  sought 
it,  he  confessed  to  himself  the  subconscious  impulse  that 
had  led  him  thither.  Yet  was  it  not  a  cheat  of  a  sub- 
conscious impulse?  Had  he  not  gone  out  from  the  hotel 
in  Kensington  with  a  definite  purpose?  As  he  crossed  to 
Broad  Sanctuary  and  the  entrance  to  Victoria  Street,  he 
argued  it  out  with  himself.  Anyhow,  it  was  the  most 
fool  of  fool-errands.  But  yet — he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  laughed.  To  what  errand  could  a  fool's  errand 
be  comparable?  Only  to  that  of  one  pixy-led.  He 
laughed  at  the  thought  of  his  disquisition  to  Olivia  on 
the  Will-o'-the-Wisp.  In  the  rare  instances  of  the  fol- 
lower of  Faith  had  he  not  proclaimed  its  guidance  to  the 
Land  of  Promise? 

Three  days  before  he  had  seen  her.  He  had  been  im- 
pelled by  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  her.  To  call  on  her 
without  shadow  of  excuse  was  impossible.  To  telephone 
or  write  an  invitation  to  lunch  was  an  act  unsuggested  by 
his  limited  social  experience.  Taking  his  chance  that 
she  should  emerge  between  eleven  and  twelve,  he  strolled 
up  and  down  the  pavement,  so  that  at  last  when  fate 
favoured  him  and  he  advanced  to  meet  her,  they  greeted 
each  other  with  a  smiling  air  of  surprise.  They  explained 
their  respective  objectives.  She  was  for  buying  a  patent 
coffee  machine  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores,  he  for 
catching  an  undesirable  train  at  Victoria  Station.  A 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  103 

threatening  morning  suddenly  became  a  rainy  noon.  He 
turned  back  with  her  and  they  fled  together  and  just 
reached  the  Stores  in  time  to  escape  from  the  full  fury  of 
the  downpour.  There  he  bent  his  mind  on  coffee  ma- 
chines. His  masculine  ignorance  of  the  whole  art  of 
coffee-making,  a  flannel  bag  in  a  jug  being  his  primitive 
conception,  moved  her  to  light-hearted  mirth.  The  pur- 
chase made,  the  order  given,  they  wandered  idly  through 
the  great  establishment.  They  were  prisoners,  the  out- 
side world  being  weltering  deluge.  For  once  in  his  life- 
time, thought  Triona,  the  elements  warred  on  his  side. 
A  wringing  machine,  before  which  he  paused  in  wonder- 
ment at  its  possible  use,  and  an  eager  description  on 
the  part  of  the  salesman,  put  Olivia  on  the  track  of  a 
game  into  which  he  entered  with  devoted  fervour.  Let 
them  suppose  they  were  going  to  furnish  a  house.  Oh! 
a  great  big  palace  of  a  house.  In  imagination  they  bought 
innumerable  things,  furnishing  the  mansion  chiefly  with 
hammocks  and  marquees  and  garden  chairs  and  lawn- 
mowers  and  grand  pianos  and  egg-whisks.  Her  heart, 
that  morning,  attuned  to  laughter,  brought  colour  into 
her  cheeks  and  brightness  into  her  eyes.  To  the  young 
man's  ear  she  seemed  to  have  an  adorable  gift  of  phrase. 
She  invested  a  rolling-pin  with  a  humorous  individuality. 
She  touched  a  tray  of  doughnuts  with  her  fancy  and 
turned  them  into  sacramental  bread  of  Momus,  ex- 
quisite Divinity  of  Mirth.  She  was  so  free,  so  graceful, 
so  intimate,  so  irresistible.  He  followed  her,  a  young  man 
bemused.  What  he  contributed  to  the  game  he  scarcely 
knew.  He  was  only  conscious  of  her  charm  and  her  whip- 
ping of  his  wit.  They  stumbled  into  the  department  of 


104  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

men's  haberdashery.     His  brain  conceived  a  daring  idea. 

"I've  been  trying  for  weeks,"  said  he,  "to  make  up  my 
mind  to  buy  a  tie." 

Olivia  glanced  swiftly  round  and  sped  to  a  counter. 

"Ties,  please." 

"What  kind?"  asked  the  salesman. 

"Ordinary  silk — sailor-knot.     Show  me  all  you've  got." 

Before  his  entranced  eyes  she  selected  half  a  dozen, 
with  a  taste  which  the  artist  within  him  knew  was  impec- 
cable. He  presented  the  bill  bearing  her  number  at  the 
cashier's  pigeon  hole,  and  returning  took  the  neat  packet 
from  the  salesman  with  the  air  of  one  receiving  a  decora- 
tion from  royalty.  They  made  their  way  to  the  exit. 
She  said: 

"I'm  afraid  we've  been  criminally  frivolous." 

"If  such  happiness  is  a  crime  I'd  willingly  swing  for  it." 

He  noted  a  quick,  uncomprehending  question  in  her 
glance  and  the  colour  mounted  into  his  pale  cheeks. 

"My  English  idiom  is  not  yet  perfect,"  he  said.  "I 
ought  not  to  have  used  that  expression." 

Olivia  laughed  at  his  discomfiture. 

"It's  generally  used  by  dreadful  people  who  threaten  to 
do  one  another  in.  But  the  metaphor's  thrilling,  all  the 
same." 

The  rain  had  ceased.     After  a  few  moments  the  mackin-  \ 
toshed  commissionaire  secured  a  taxi.     Triona  accom- 
panied her  to  the  door.     She  thrust  out  a  frank  hand. 

"Au  revoir.  It  has  been  delightful  to  find  you  so 
human." 

She  drove  off.  He  stood,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips, 
watching  the  vehicle  disappear  in  the  traffic.  Her  fare- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  105 

well  was  characteristic.  What  could  one  expect  of  her 
but  the  unexpected? 

That  was  three  days  ago.  The  image  of  her  uncon- 
sciously alluring  yet  frank  to  disconcertment,  spiritually 
feminine  yet  materially  impatient  of  sex ;  the  image  of  her 
in  the  three  separate  settings — the  dark-eyed  princess  in 
fur  and  flame  beneath  the  electric  light  of  the  theatre 
portico;  the  slim  girl  in  simple  blouse  and  skirt  who,  over 
the  pretty  teacups,  held  so  nice  a  balance  between  Olifant 
and  himself;  the  gay  playmate  of  a  rainy  hour,  in  her 
fawn  costume  (he  still  felt  the  thrill  of  the  friendly  touch 
of  her  fawn-coloured  gloved  hands  on  his  sleeve) — the 
composite  image  and  vision  of  her  had  filled  his  sleeping 
and  waking  thoughts  to  the  destruction  of  his  peace  of 
mind  and  the  dislocation  of  his  work. 

Thus,  on  this  warm  night  of  spring,  he  stood,  the  most 
foolishly  romantical  of  mortals,  at  the  entrance  to  Vic- 
toria Street,  and  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  proceeded 
on  his  errand  of  mute  troubadour.  Perhaps  the  day  of 
rapture  might  come  when  he  would  tell  her  how  he  stood 
in  the  watches  of  the  night  and  gazed  up  at  what  he 
had  to  imagine  was  her  window  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the 
undistinguished  barrack  that  was  her  home.  It  was 
poetic,  fantastic,  Russian,  at  any  rate.  It  would  also 
mark  the  end  of  his  excursion;  it  was  a  fair  tramp  back 
to  South  Kensington. 

An  unheeded  taxi-cab  whizzed  past  him  as  he  walked; 
but  a  few  seconds  later,  the  faint  sound  of  splintering 
glass  and  then  the  scrunch  of  brakes  suddenly  applied 
awoke  him  from  his  smiling  meditations.  The  cab 
stopped,  sharply  outlined  in  the  clear  moonlight.  The 


106  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

driver  leaped  from  his  seat  and  flung  open  the  door.  A 
woman  sprang  out,  followed  by  a  man.  Both  were  in 
evening  dress.  Voices  rose  at  once  in  altercation.  Tri- 
ona,  suspecting  an  accident,  quickened  his  pace  instinc- 
tively into  a  run  and  joined  the  group. 

"What's  up?" 

But  as  the  instinctive  words  passed  his  lips  he  be- 
came amazedly  conscious  of  Olivia  standing  there,  quiver- 
ing, as  white  as  the  white  dress  and  cloak  she  wore,  her 
eyes  ablaze.  She  flashed  on  him  a  half-hysterical  rec- 
ognition and  clutched  his  arm. 

"You?" 

He  drew  himself  up  to  his  slim  height  and  looked  first 
at  the  taxi  driver  and  then  at  the  heavy,  swarthy  man  in 
evening  dress,  and  then  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter?    Tell  me,"  he  rapped  out. 

"This  man  tried  to  insult  me,"  she  gasped. 

Olivia  never  knew  how  it  happened:  it  happened  like 
some  instantaneous  visitation  of  God.  The  lithe  young 
figure  suddenly  shot  forward  and  the  heavy  man  rolled 
yards  away  on  the  pavement. 

"Serve  him  damn  well  right,"  said  the  driver;  "but 
where  do  I  come  in  with  my  window  broken?" 

"Oh,  you  shall  be  paid,  you  shall  be  paid,"  cried  Olivia. 
"Pay  him,  Mr.  Triona,  and  let  us  go." 

Triona  glanced  up  and  down  the  street.  "No,  this 
gentleman's  going  to  pay,"  he  said  quietly  and  advanced 
to  the  heavy  man  who  had  scrambled  to  unsteady  feet. 

"Just  you  settle  up  with  that  cabman,  quick,  do  you 
hear,  or  I'll  knock  you  down  again.  I  could  knock  you 
down  sixty  times  an  hour.  And  so  help  be,  God,  if  a 
copper  comes  in  sight  I'll  murder  you." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  107 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  the  man  hurriedly.  "I  don't 
want  a  scandal  for  the  lady's  sake."  He  turned  to  the 
taxi  man.  "How  much  do  you  want?" 

"With  the  damage  it'll  be  a  matter  of  ten  pound." 

The  swarthy  man  in  evening  dress  fished  out  his  note- 
case. 

"Here  you  are,  you  blackmailing  thief." 

"None  of  your  back-chat,  or  I'll  finish  off  what  this 
gentleman  has  begun,"  said  the  taxi  man,  pocketing  the 
money. 

Until  he  saw  summary  justice  accomplished,  Triona 
stood  in  the  lee  of  the  houses,  his  arm  stretched  pro- 
tectingly  in  front  of  Olivia.  Then  he  drew  her 
away. 

"I'll  see  the  lady  home.    It's  only  a  few  steps." 

"Right,  sir.     Good  night,  sir,"  said  the  taxi  man. 

They  moved  on.  Immediately  in  the  silence  of  the 
night  came  the  crisp  exchange  of  words. 

"I'll  give  you  a  pound  to  take  me  to  Porchester  Ter- 
race." 

"And  I'd  give  a  pound  to  see  you  walk  there,  said 
the  driver,  already  in  his  seat. 

He  threw  in  the  clutch  and  with  a  cheery  "Good  night" 
passed  the  extravagantly  encountered  pair. 

"They  say  miracles  don't  happen,  but  one  has  hap- 
pened now,"  said  Olivia  breathlessly.  "If  you  hadn't 
come  out  of  space " 

"Do  tell  me  something  about  it,"  he  asked. 

"But  don't  you  know?" 

"You  said  that  profit-merchant  had  insulted  you  and 
that  was  enough  for  me." 

"Oh,  my  God!     I'm  so  ashamed!"  she  cried,  with  a 


108  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

wild,  pretty  gesture  of  her  hands.  "What  will  you  think 
of  me?" 

Mad  words  rushed  through  his  brain,  but  before  they 
found  utterance  he  gripped  himself.  He  had,  once  more, 
his  hands  on  the  controls. 

"What  I  think  of  you,  Miss  Gale,  it  would  be  wiser  not 
to  say.  I  should  like  to  hear  what  has  occurred.  But, 
pardon  me,"  he  said  abruptly,  noticing  her  curious,  un- 
even step,  and  glancing  down  instinctively  at  her  feet, 
"what  has  become  of  your  shoe?" 

"My  slipper — why,  of  course "  She  halted,  sud- 
denly aware  of  the  loss.  "I  must  have  left  it  in  the  cab. 
I  stuck  up  my  foot  and  reached  for  it  and  broke  the  win- 
dow with  the  heel.  I  also  think  I  hit  him  in  the  face." 

"It  seems  as  though  he  was  down  and  out  before  I 
came  up,"  said  Triona. 

"If  you  hadn't  I  don't  how  I  should  have  carried  on," 
she  confessed. 

They  walked  down  the  wide,  empty  street.  The  moon 
shone  high  above  them,  the  girl  in  her  elegance,  the  man  in 
his  loose  grey  flannels  and  soft  felt  hat,  an  incongruous 
couple,  save  for  their  common  air  of  alert  youth.  And 
while  they  walked  she  rapidly  told  her  story.  She  had 
been  to  Percy's  with  the  usual  crowd,  Lydia  Dawlish  her 
nominal  chaperone.  The  man,  Edwin  Mavenna,  a  city 
friend  of  Sydney  Rooke,  whom  she  had  met  a  half  a  dozen 
times,  had  offered  to  drive  her  home  in  his  waiting  taxi. 
Tried,  dependent  for  transport  on  Rooke  and  Lydia,  who 
desired  a  further  hour  of  the  night  club's  dismal 
jocundity,  and  angry  with  Bobby  Quinton,  who  seemed 
to  think  that  her  ear  had  no  other  function  than  to  listen 
to  tales  of  sentimenti-financial  woe,  she  had  accepted. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  109 

Half-way  home  she  had  begun  to  regret;  three-quarters 
of  the  way  she  had  been  frightened.  As  they  turned  into 
Victoria  Street  she  had  managed  to  free  her  arm  and  wield 
the  victorious  slipper. 

"I'll  never  go  to  that  abominable  place  again  as  long  as 
I  live,"  she  cried. 

"I  should,  if  I  were  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Why?" 

"I'd  go  once  or  twice,  at  any  rate.  To  show  yourself 
independent  of  it.  To  prove  to  yourself  that  you're  not 
frightened  of  it." 

"But  I  am  frightened  of  it.  On  the  outside  it's  as 
respectable  as  Medlow  Parish  Church  on  Sunday.  But 
below  the  surface  there's  all  sorts  of  hideousness — and 
I'm  frightened." 

"You're  not,"  said  he.  "Things  may  startle  you, 
infuriate  you,  put  you  off  your  equilibrium;  but  they 
don't  frighten  you.  They  didn't  this  evening.  I've  seen 
too  many  people  frightened  in  my  time  not  to  know. 
You're  not  that  sort." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  Mansions.  She 
smiled  at  him,  her  gaiety  returning. 

"You're  as  comforting  and  consoling  a  Knight  Errant 
as  one  could  wish  to  meet.  The  damsel  in  distress  is 
greatly  beholden  to  you.  But  how  the — whatever 
you  like — you  managed  to  time  the  rescue  is  beyond  my 
comprehension." 

"The  stars  guided  me,"  he  replied,  with  an  upward 
sweep  of  the  hand.  "Mortals  have  striven  to  comprehend 
them  for  thousands  of  years — but  without  success.  I 
started  out  to  wander  about  this  great  city — I  often  do 
for  hours — I'm  a  born  wanderer — with  the  vagabond's 


110  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

aimlessness  and  trust  in  chance,  or  in  the  stars — and  this 
time  the  stars  brought  me  where  it  was  decreed  that  I 
should  be." 

While  he  was  speaking  she  had  opened  the  door  with 
her  latchkey  and  now  stood,  shimmering  white  in  the 
gloom  of  the  entrance.  She  held  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  too  much  occupied  in  trying  not 
to  seemed  frightened  and  silly  to  thank  you  decently  for 
what  you've  done.  But  I  am  grateful.  You  don't  know 
how  grateful.  I'll  have  to  tell  you  some  other  time." 

"To-morrow?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "Yes,  to-morrow,"  she 
replied  softly.  "I  shall  be  in  all  day.  Goodnight." 

After  the  swift  handshake  the  door  closed  on  the  enrap- 
tured young  man,  and  the  hard,  characterless  street, 
down  which  he  seemed  to  dance,  became  transformed 
into  a  moonlit  glade  of  fairyland. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  he  entered  his 
back-bedroom  at  the  Vanloo  Hotel.  But  he  did  not  sleep. 
He  had  no  desire  for  sleep — youth  resenting  the  veil 
drawn  across  a  consciousness  so  exquisitely  alive.  Sleep, 
when  the  stars  in  their  courses  were  fighting  for  him? 
Impossible,  preposterous!  Let  him  rather  live,  again 
and  again,  over  the  night's  crowded  adventure.  Every 
detail  of  it  set  his  pulses  throbbing.  The  mere  glorious 
first  recognition  of  her  was  the  thrill  of  a  lifetime. 
He  constructed  and  reconstructed  the  immortal  pic- 
ture. The  moonlit,  silent  street,  its  high,  decorous 
buildings  marked  by  the  feeble  gas  lamps  melting  into 
an  indeterminate  vanishing  point.  The  clear-cut  scene. 
The  taxicab.  The  three  human  figures.  The  stunted 
driver.  The  massive,  dark  man,  in  silk  hat  which  re- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  111 

fleeted  the  moonlight,  in  black  over-coat  thrown  open, 
revealing  a  patch  of  white  shirt  and  waistcoat;  the 
slender,  quivering,  white  form  draped  in  white  fur,  white 
gossamer,  white  what-not,  crowned  with  dark  glory  of 
eyes  and  hair.  The  masculine  in  him  exulted  in  his 
physical  strength  and  skill — in  the  clean,  straight,  ele- 
mentary yet  scientific  left-hander  that  got  the  hulking 
swine  between  the  eyes  and  sent  him  reeling  and  sprawl- 
ing and  asking  for  no  more  punishment.  And  then — oh, 
it  was  a  great  thing  to  command,  to  impose  his 
will.  To  walk  in  triumph  off  with  the  wonderful  lady  of 
his  dreams.  To  feel,  as  she  thanked  him,  that  here  was 
something  definite  that  he  had  done  for  her,  something 
with  a  touch  of  the  romantic,  the  heroic,  which,  in  its 
trivial  way,  justified  belief  in  the  incidents  of  his  adven- 
turous career  which  he  had  so  modestly,  yet  so  vividly 
described  in  the  book  that  had  brought  him  fame. 

On  this  point  of  justification  he  was  peculiarly  sensi- 
tive. Various  Englishmen,  soldiers  sent  out  on  secret  mis- 
sions to  the  fringes  of  the  areas  of  his  activities,  had  ques- 
tioned many  of  his  statements,  both  in  the  book  and  in 
descriptive  articles  which  he  had  written  for  newspapers 
and  other  periodicals,  and  asked  for  proofs.  And  he  had 
replied,  most  cogently,  that  the  sphere  of  the  Russian 
Secret  Service  in  which  he  was  employed  was,  of  necessity, 
beyond  the  ken  of  the  secret  service  of  any  other  Power 
in  Europe,  and  that  official  proofs  were  lost  in  the  social 
and  political  disintegration  of  Russia.  One  man,  a  great 
man,  speaking  with  unquestionable  authority,  silenced 
the  horde  of  cavillers  as  far  as  events  prior  to  1917  were 
concerned.  But  there  were  still  some  who  barked  annoy- 
ingly  at  his  heels.  Proofs,  of  course,  he  had  none  to  give. 


112  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

How  can  a  man  give  proofs  when  he  is  cast  up,  practically 
naked,  on  the  coast  of  England?  He  must  be  believed  or 
not.  And  it  was  the  haunting  terror  of  this  sensitive  boy 
of  genius,  whose  face  and  eyes  bore  the  ineffaceable  marks 
of  suffering,  that  he  should  lose  the  credit  which  he  had 
gained. 

At  all  hazards  he  must  allow  no  doubts  to  arise  in  the 
mind  of  Olivia.  To  fight  them  down  he  would  do  all 
manner  of  extravagant  things.  He  regretted  the  pusillan- 
imous tameness  of  his  late  opponent.  If  the  man  had 
only  picked  himself  up  and  given  battle!  If  only  there 
had  been  half  a  dozen  abductors  or  insulters  instead  of 
one!  His  spirits  (at  seven  o'clock)  sank  at  the  logical 
conclusion  that  the  conventional  conditions  of  post-war 
civilized  life  afforded  a  meagre  probability  of  the  recur- 
rence of  such  another  opportunity.  He  had  the  tempera- 
ment of  those  whose  hunger  is  only  whetted  by  triumph, 
to  whom  attainment  only  gives  vision  of  new  heights. 
When,  after  tossing  sleepless  in  his  bed,  he  rose  and 
dressed  at  nine,  he  had  decided  that,  in  knocking  down  a 
mere  mass  of  unresisting  flesh,  he  had  played  a  part 
almost  inglorious,  such  as  any  stay-at-home  embusqui 
could  have  played.  By  not  one  jot  or  tittle  did  his  act 
advance  the  credibility  of  his  story.  And  on  his  story 
alone  could  he  found  his  hopes  of  finding  favour  in  her 
marvellous  eyes.  Of  the  touch  of  genius  that  inspired 
his  literary  work  he  thought  little.  At  this  stage  of  his 
career  he  was  filled  with  an  incredulous  wonder  at  his 
possession  of  a  knack  which  converted  a  page  of  scribble 
into  a  cheque  upon  a  bank.  His  writing  meant  money. 
Not  money,  wealth,  on  the  grand  scale;  but  money  to 
keep  him  as  a  modest  gentleman  on  the  social  grade  to 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  113 

which  he  had  attained,  and  to  save  him  from  the  detested 
livery  of  the  chauffeur.  The  story  which  he  was  telling 
in  the  new  book  was  but  a  means  to  this  end.  The 
story  which  he  had  told  was  life  itself.  Nay,  now  it  was 
more:  it  was  love  itself;  it  was  a  girl  who  was  more  than 
life. 

He  called  at  the  Victoria  Street  flat  at  twelve  o'clock. 
The  austere  Myra  looked  on  him  disapprovingly.  Tea- 
time  was  the  visiting  time  for  stray  young  men,  and  even 
then  she  conveyed  to  them  the  impression  that  she  let 
them  in  on  sufferance. 

"What  name?"  she  asked. 

"Mr.  Triona." 

"Miss  Gale  is  in,  sir,"  she  admitted  grudgingly,  having 
received  explicit  orders  from  Olivia,  "but  she  is  dressing 
and  I  don't  know  whether  she  can  see  you." 

"Will  you  tell  Miss  Gale  that  I  am  entirely  at  her  ser- 
vice, and  if  it's  inconvenient  for  her  to  see  me  now  I'll 
call  later." 

Myra  left  him  standing  in  the  little  vestibule  and  gave 
the  message  to  Olivia,  who,  fully  dressed,  was  polishing 
her  nails  in  her  bedroom. 

"You're  the  most  impossible  woman  on  earth,"  Olivia 
declared,  turning  on  her.  "Is  that  the  way  you 
would  treat  a  man  who  had  delivered  you  from  a 
dragon?" 

"I  don't  hold  with  men  and  I  don't  hold  with  dragons," 
replied  Myra  unmoved.  "The  next  time  you'll  be  want- 
ing me  to  fall  over  a  dragon  who  has  delivered  you  from 
a  man!" 

Olivia  scarcely  listened  to  the  retort.  She  flew  out  and 
carried  the  waiting  Triona  into  the  sitting-room. 


114  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I'm  so  sorry.  My  maid's  a  terror.  She  bites  and 
doesn't  bark.  But  I  guarantee  her  non-venomous.  How 
good  of  you  to  come  so  early." 

"I  was  anxious,"  said  Triona. 

"About  what?" 

"Last  night  must  have  been  a  shock." 

"Of  course  it  was,"  she  laughed;  "but  not  enough  to 
keep  me  all  day  long  in  fainting  fits  with  doctors  and 
smelling-bottles." 

"I  hope  you  slept  all  right." 

"No,"  she  replied  frankly.  "That  I  didn't  do.  The 
adventure  was  a  bit  too  exciting.  Besides " 

"Besides  what?" 

"It  came  into  my  head  to  make  up  my  moral  balance 
sheet.  Figures  of  arithmetic  always  send  me  to  sleep; 
but  figures  of — well,  of  that  kind  of  thing,  don't  you 
know — keep  me  broad  awake." 

Olivia's  dark,  eager  face  was  of  the  kind  that  shows  the 
traces  of  fatigue  in  faint  shadows  under  the  eyes.  He 
swiftly  noted  them  and  cried  out: 

"You're  dead  tired.  It's  damnable."  He  rose,  sud- 
denly angry.  "You  ought  to  go  to  bed  at  once.  Your 
maid  was  right.  I  had  no  business  to  come  at  this  hour 
and  disturb  you." 

"If  you  hadn't  come,"  said  Olivia,  inwardly  glowing  at 
the  tribute  paid  by  the  indignant  youth,  "I  should  have 
imagined  that  you  looked  on  last  night's  affair  as  a  trum- 
pery incident  in  the  day's  work  and  went  to  bed  and  for- 
got all  about  it." 

"That's  impossible,"  said  he.  "I,  too,  haven't  slept  a 
wink." 

She  met  and  held  his  eyes  longer  than  she,  or  anyone 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  115 

else,  had  held  them.     Then,  half  angrily,  she  felt  her 
cheeks  grow  hot  and  red. 

"For  you,  who  have  faced  death  a  hundred  times,  last 
night,  as  I've  just  said,  must  be  even  dull.  What  was 
it  to  the  night  when  you — you  know — the  sentry — when 
you  were  unarmed  and  you  fought  with  him  and  you 
killed  him  with  his  own  bayonet?" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  and  smiled.  "That  was  unim- 
portant. Whether  I  lived  or  died  didn't  matter  to  any- 
body. It  didn't  matter  much  to  me.  It  was  sheer 
animal  instinct.  But  last  night  it  was  you.  And  that 
makes  a  universe  of  difference." 

Olivia  rose,  and,  with  a  "You're  not  smoking,"  offered 
him  a  box  of  cigarettes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  when  he  had  lighted  it,  with  fingers 
trembling  ever  so  slightly  as  they  held  the  match,  "I  sup- 
pose a  woman  does  make  a  difference.  We're  always  in 
the  way,  somehow.  Women  and  children  first.  Why 
they  don't  throw  us  overboard  at  once  and  let  the  really 
useful  people  save  themselves,  I  could  never  make  out." 

His  air  of  dismay  was  that  of  a  devotee  listening  to  a 
saint  blaspheme.  Her  laughter  rippled,  music  to  his  ears. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  should  like  to  do?  Get  out  of 
London  for  a  few  hours  and  fill  my  lungs  with  air.  Rich- 
mond Park,  for  instance." 

"I,  too."    He  sighed.     "If  only  I  had  a  car!" 

"There  are  such  things  as  motor-buses." 

He  sprang  to  delighted  feet.  His  divinity  on  a  bus  top ! 
It  was  like  the  Paphian  goddess  condescending  from  her 
dove-drawn  chariot  to  the  joggle  of  a  four-wheeler  cab. 

"Would  you  really  go  on  one?" 

She  would.    She  would  start  forthwith.    The  time 


116  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

only  to  put  on  a  hat.  She  left  him  to  his  heart-beats  of 
happiness,  presently  to  reappear,  hatted,  gloved,  and 
smiling. 

"You're  quite  sure  you  would  like  to  come?  Your 
work?" 

"My  work  needs  the  open  air  as  much  as  I  do,"  said 
he. 

They  went  forth,  boy  and  girl  on  a  jaunt,  and  side  by 
side  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus  they  gave  themselves  up 
to  the  laughter  of  the  pure  sunshine.  At  Richmond  they 
lunched,  for  youth  must  be  fed,  and  afterwards  went 
through  the  streets  of  the  old  town,  and  stood  on  the 
bridge  watching  the  exquisite  curve  of  the  river  embos- 
omed in  the  very  newest  of  new  greenery,  and  let  its 
loveliness  sink  into  their  hearts.  Then  they  wandered 
deep  into  the  Park  and  found  a  tree  from  beneath  which 
they  could  see  the  deer  browsing  in  the  shade;  and  there 
they  sat,  happy  in  their  freedom  and  isolation.  What 
they  said,  most  of  the  time,  was  no  great  matter.  Of 
the  two,  perhaps  she  talked  the  more;  for  he  had  said: 

"I  am  so  tired  of  talking  about  myself.  I  have  been 
obliged  to,  so  that  it  has  become  a  professional  habit. 
And  what  there  is  to  be  known  about  me,  you  know. 
But  you — you  who  have  lived  such  a  different  life  from 
mine — I  know  so  little  of  you.  In  fact,  I've  known  noth- 
ing of  English  women  such  as  you.  You're  a  mystery. 
Tell  me  about  yourself." 

So  she  had  begun: 

"Well,  I  was  born — I  shan't  tell  you  the  year — of  poor 
but  honest  parents " 

And  then,  led  on  by  his  eager  sympathy  and  his  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  her  home,  she  had  abandoned  the  jest- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  117 

ing  note  and  talked  simply  and  frankly  of  her  secluded 
and  eventless  life.  With  feminine  guile,  and  with  last 
night's  newborn  mistrust  of  men,  she  set  a  little  trap. 

"Did  you  ever  go  into  my  mother's  room?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  Perhaps  that  was  the  one — the 
best  bedroom — which  Olifant  always  kept  locked." 

She  felt  ashamed  of  her  unworthy  suspicion;  glad  at 
the  loyal  keeping  of  a  promise,  to  the  extent  of  not  allow- 
ing a  visitor  even  a  peep  inside  the  forbidden  chamber. 

"I  thing  Blaise  Olifant  is  one  of  the  finest  types  Eng- 
land breeds,"  she  said  warmly. 

There  was  a  touch  of  jealous  fear  in  his  swift  glance; 
but  he  replied  with  equal  warmth: 

"You  needn't  tell  me  that.  Brave,  modest,  of  sensitive 
honour — Ah!  A  man  with  a  mind  so  cultivated  that  he 
seems  to  know  nothing  until  you  talk  with  him,  and  then 
you  find  that  he  knows  everything.  I  love  him." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Why?     Do  you  admire  him  so  much?" 

"It  isn't  tha£,"  she  parried.  "It's  on  your  account. 
One  man's  generous  praise  of  another  does  one's  heart 
good."  She  threw  out  her  arms  as  though  to  embrace 
the  rolling  park  of  infinite  sward  and  majestic  trees.  "I 
love  big  things,"  she  said. 

Whereupon  Alexis  Triona  thanked  his  stars  for  having 
led  him  along  the  true  path. 

Who  can  say  that,  in  after  years,  these  twain,  when 
they  shall  have  grown  old  and  have  gone  through  what- 
ever furnaces  Fate — either  personal  destiny  or  the  Fate 
of  Social  Institutions — may  prepare  for  them,  will  not 
retain  imperishable  memories  of  the  idyll  of  that  sweet 
spring  day?  There  they  sat,  youth  spiritually  commun- 


118  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

ing  with  youth;  the  girl  urged  by  feminine  instinct  to 
love  him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed;  the  young  man 
aflame  with  her  beauty,  her  charm,  her  dryad  elusive- 
ness.  Here,  for  him,  was  yet  another  aspect  of  her,  free, 
unseizable  in  the  woodland  setting.  And  for  her,  another 
aspect  of  him,  the  simple,  clean-cut  Englishman,  divested 
of  vague  and  disquieting  Russian  citizenship,  the  perfect 
companion,  responsive  to  every  chord  struck  by  the  spirit 
of  the  magic  afternoon.  In  the  years  to  come,  who  can 
say  that  they  will  not  remember  this  sweet  and  delicate 
adventure  of  their  souls  creeping  forth  in  trembling 
reconnaissance  one  of  the  other?  Perhaps  it  will  be  a 
more  precious  memory  to  the  woman  than  to  the  man. 
Men  do  not  lay  things  up  in  lavender  as  women  do. 

If  he  had  spoken,  declared  his  passion  in  lover's  set 
terms,  perhaps  her  heart  might  have  been  caught  by  the 
glamour  of  it  all,  and  she  might  have  surrendered  to  his 
kisses,  and  they  might  have  journeyed  back  to  London 
in  a  state  of  unreprehensible  yet  commonplace  beatitude. 
And  the  memory  would  possibly  have  been  marked  by  a 
white  stone  rising  stark  in  an  airless  distance.  But  he 
did  not  speak,  held  back  by  a  rare  reverence  of  her  maid- 
enhood and  her  perfect  trust;  and  in  her  heart  flowered 
gratitude  for  his  sensitiveness  to  environment.  So  easy 
for  a  maladroit  touch  to  mar  the  perfection  of  an  ex- 
quisite hour  of  blue  mist  and  mystery.  So,  again,  who 
knows  but  that  in  the  years  to  come  the  memory  will  be 
marked  by  a  fragrance,  a  shimmer  of  leaves,  a  haze  over 
green  sward,  incorporated  impalpably  with  the  dear 
ghost  of  an  immortal  day? 

They  returned  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus,  rather  late, 
and  on  the  way  they  spoke  little.  Now  and  then  he 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  119 

glanced  sideways  at  her  and  met  her  eyes  and  caught  her 
smile,  and  felt  content.  At  the  terminus  of  the  omnibus 
route,  in  the  raging,  busy  precincts  of  the  stations  of 
Victoria,  they  alighted.  He  walked  with  her  to  her  door 
in  Victoria  Street. 

"Your  words  have  been  singing  in  my  ears,"  said  he: 
"  'I  love  big  things.'  To  me,  to-day  has  seemed  a  big 
thing." 

"And  I've  loved  it,"  she  replied. 

"True?" 

"True." 

She  sped  up  to  her  room  somewhat  dazed,  conscious  ot 
need  to  keep  her  balance.  So  much  had  happened  in  the 
last  four-and-twenty  hours.  The  shudder  of  the  night 
had  still  horrified  her  flesh  when  she  drew  the  young  man 
out  into  the  wide  daylight  and  the  open  air;  and  now  it 
had  passed  away,  as  though  it  had  never  been,  and  a  new 
quivering  of  youth,  taking  its  place,  ran  like  laughter 
through  her  bodily  frame  and  her  heart  and  her  mind. 

"H'm.  Your  outing  seems  to  have  done  you  good," 
said  the  impassive  Myra,  letting  her  in. 

"My  first  day's  escape  from  a  foetid  prison,"  she  said. 

"I  suppose  you  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said 
Myra. 

Olivia  laughed  and  threw  her  arm  round  Myra's  lean 
shoulders. 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"He  ain't  much  to  look  at." 

Olivia,  flushing,  turned  on  her. 

"I  never  knew  a  more  abominable  woman." 

"Then  you're  lucky,"  retorted  Myra,  and  faded  away 
into  her  kitchen. 


120  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Olivia,  mirthful,  uplifted,  danced,  as  it  were,  into  the 
sitting-room  and  began  to  pull  off  her  gloves.  Suddenly 
her  glance  fell  on  a  letter  lying  on  her  writing  table.  She 
frowned  slightly  as  she  opened  it,  and  as  she  read  the 
frown  grew  deeper.  It  was  from  Bobby  Quinton.  What 
his  dearest  of  dear  ladies  would  think  of  him  he  left  on 
the  joint  knees  of  the  gods  and  of  his  dearest  lady — but 
— but  the  wolves  were  at  his  heels.  He  had  thrown 
them  all  that  he  possessed — fur  coat,  watch  and  chain, 
diamond  studs,  and,  having  gulped  them  all,  they  were 
still  in  fierce  pursuit.  In  a  fortnight  would  he  have 
ample  funds  to  satisfy  them.  But  now  he  was  at  bay. 
He  apologized  for  the  mixture  of  metaphor.  But  still, 
there  he  was  aux  abois.  Fifty  pounds,  just  for  a  fort- 
night. Could  the  dearest  of  dear  ladies  see  her  way ? 

She  went  to  her  desk  and  wrote  out  a  cheque  which 
she  enclosed  in  an  envelope.  To  save  her  soul  alive  she 
could  not  have  written  Bobby  Quinton  an  accompanying 
line. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HERE,  all  in  a  rush  of  twenty-four  hours,  was  a 
glut  of  incident  for  a  young  woman  out  for 
adventure.  Triona  had  only  made  his  effect 
on  the  romantically  feminine  within  Olivia  by  his  trium- 
phant rescue.  As  to  that  he  need  have  no  misgivings. 
So  once  did  Andromeda  see  young  Perseus,  calm  and 
assured,  deliver  her  from  the  monster.  Triona's  felling 
of  Mavenna  appealed  to  the  lingering  savage  woman 
fiercely  conscious  of  wrong  avenged;  but  his  immediate 
and  careless  mastery  of  the  situation  struck  civilized 
chords.  She  could  see  him  dominating  the  sheepskin-clad 
tribe  in  the  Urals  (see  Through  Blood  and  Snow}  until 
he  established  their  independence  in  their  mountain 
fastness.  She  could  see  him,  masterful,  resourceful, 
escaping  from  the  Bolshevik  prison  and  making  his 
resistless  way  across  a  hostile  continent.  She  could  also 
appreciate,  after  this  wonder-day  at  Richmond,  the 
suppleness  of  his  simple  charm  which  won  him  food  and 
shelter  where  food  scarcely  existed  and  shelter  to  a  stran- 
ger was  a  matter  of  shooting  or  a  bashing  in  of  heads. 

As  for  Mavenna,  her  flesh  still  shuddered  at  the  mem- 
ory of  those  few  moments  of  insult.  What  he  said  she 
could  scarcely  remember.  The  inextricable  clutch  of 
his  great  arms  around  her  body  and  the  detestable  kisses 
eclipsed  mere  words.  Unwittingly  his  hug  had  com- 
pressed her  throat  so  that  she  could  not  scream.  There 
had  been  nothing  for  it  but  the  slipper  unhooked  by  the 

121 


122  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

free  arm,  and  the  doughty  heel.  Had  she  won  through 
alone  to  her  room,  she  would  have  collapsed — so  she 
assured  herself — from  sickening  horror.  But  the  De- 
liverer had  been  there,  as  in  a  legend  of  Greece  or 
Broceliande,  and  had  saved  her  from  the  madness  of  the 
nymph  terror  stricken  by  Satyrs.  The  two  extrava- 
gances had,  in  a  way,  counteracted  each  other,  setting 
her,  by  the  morning,  in  a  normal  equilibrium.  She  had 
tried  to  explain  the  phenomenon  by  referring  to  her  hav- 
ing spent  the  night  in  striking  a  moral  balance-sheet. 
And  then  had  come  the  day,  the  wonderful  day,  in  which 
the  Deliverer  had  proved  himself  the  perfect,  gentle 
Knight.  Can  it  be  wondered  that  her  brain  swam  with 
him? 

She  went  the  next  morning  to  Lydia's  hat  shop,  and, 
in  the  little  room  which  Sydney  Brooke  had  called  her 
cubby  hole,  a  nine-foot-square  boudoir  office,  reeking 
with  Lydia's  scent  and  with  Heaven  knows  what  scan- 
dals and  vulgarities  and  vanities  of  post-war  London,  she 
poured  out  her  tale  of  outrage.  After  listening  with 
indulgent  patience,  Lydia  remarked  judicially: 

"I  told  you,  my  dear  child,  when  you  came  to  London, 
that  the  first  lesson  you  had  to  learn  was  to  take  care  of 
yourself." 

Olivia  flashed.  She  had  taken  care  of  herself  well 
enough.  But  that  brute  Mavenna — what  about  him? 

"Everybody  knows  Mavenna,"  replied  Lydia.  "No 
girl  in  her  senses  would  have  trusted  herself  alone  with 
him." 

"And,  with  that  reputation,  he's  a  friend  of  yours  and 
Sydney's?" 

Lydia  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  123 

"Really,  my  dear,  if  one  exacted  certificates  of  lamb- 
like innocence,  signed  by  a  high  celestial  official,  before 
you  admitted  anyone  into  the  circle  of  your  acquaint- 
ance, you  might  as  well  go  and  live  on  a  desert  island." 

"But  this  man's  a  beast  and  you've  known  it  all 
along!"  cried  Olivia. 

"Only  in  one  way." 

"But— my  God!  Isn't  that  enough?"  Olivia  stood, 
racked  with  disgust  and  amazement,  over  her  mild-eyed, 
philosophic  friend.  "What  would  you  have  done  if 
you  had  been  in  my  place?" 

"I  could  never  have  been  in  your  place,"  said  Lydia. 
"I  should  have  been  too  wise." 

"How?" 

"The  knowledge  of  men,  my  dear,  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom." 

"And  I  ought  to  have  known?" 

"Of  course.     At  any  rate,  you'll  know  in  the  future." 

"I  shall.  You  may  be  dead  certain  I  shall,"  declared 
Olivia,  in  her  anger  and  excitement  seizing  a  puckered 
and  pleated  cushion  from  the  divan  by  which  she  stood. 
"And  if  even  I " 

"Don't,  darling;  you'll  tear  it,"  said  Lydia  calmly. 

Olivia  heaved  the  cushion  back  impatiently. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  this.  Are  you  and  Sydney 
going  to  remain  friends  with  Mavenna?" 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to,"  replied  Lydia.  "Mavenna 
and  Sydney  are  in  all  sorts  of  big  things  together." 

"Well,  when  next  you  see  him,  Lydia,  look  well  into 
his  face  and  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  the  heel  of  my 
slipper  and  Mr.  Triona's  fist.  He's  not  only  a  beast. 


124  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He's  a  worm.  When  I  think  of  him  picking  himself  up, 

after  being  knocked  down  by  a  man  half  his  size " 

She  laughed  a  bit  hysterically.  "Oh — the  creature  is 
outside  the  pale!" 

Lydia  shook  her  fair  head.  "I'm  sorry  for  you,  my 
dear.  But  he's  inside  all  right." 

"Then  I'm  not  going  to  be  inside  with  him!"  cried 
Olivia. 

And,  like  a  little  dark  dust  storm,  she  swirled  out  of 
the  office  and,  through  the  shop,  into  the  freedom  and 
spaciousness  of  the  streets.  And  that,  for  Olivia,  was 
the  end  of  night  clubs  and  dancing  as  a  serious  aim  in 
life,  and  a  host  of  other  vanities. 

A  few  mornings  afterwards  Lydia  sailed  into  the  flat 
and  greeted  Olivia  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
She  seemed  to  base  her  philosophy  of  life  on  obliteration 
of  the  past,  yesterday  being  as  dead  as  a  winter's  day  of 
sixty  years  ago.  Would  Olivia  lunch  with  Sydney  and 
herself  at  some  riverside  club?  Sydney,  having  collected 
Mauregard,  would  be  calling  for  them  with  the  car.  The 
day  was  fine  and  warm;  the  prospect  of  the  cool  lawn 
reaching  down  to  the  plashing  river  allured,  and  she  liked 
Mauregard.  Besides,  she  had  begun  to  take  a  humor- 
ous view  of  Lydia.  She  consented.  Lydia  began  to 
talk  of  her  wedding,  fixed  for  the  middle  of  July,  of  the 
clothes  that  she  had  and  the  clothes  that  she  hadn't — 
the  ratio  of  the  former  to  the  latter  being  that  of  a  loin- 
cloth to  the  stock  of  Selfridge's.  When  she  was  serious 
minded,  Lydia  always  expressed  herself  in  terms  of  rai- 
ment. 

"And  you'll  have  to  get  some  things,  too,  as  you're 
going  to  be  bridesmaid." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  125 

"Am  I?"  asked  Olivia,  this  being  the  first  she  had 
heard  of  it.  "And  who's  going  to  be  best  man — Ma- 
venna?" 

Lydia  looked  aghast.  So  might  a  band  of  primitive 
Christians  have  received  a  suggestion  of  inviting  the 
ghost  of  Pontius  Pilate  to  a  commemorative  supper. 

"My  dear  child,  you  don't  suppose  we're  going  to  ask 
that  horror  to  the  wedding?" 

"The  other  day,"  Olivia  remarked  drily,  "I  under- 
stood that  you  and  Sydney  loved  him  dearly." 

Lydia  sighed.  "I'm  beginning  to  believe  that  you'll 
never  understand  anything." 

So  the  breach,  if  breach  there  were,  was  healed. 
Olivia,  relating  the  matter  to  Triona  at  their  next  meet- 
ing, qualified  Lydia's  attitude  as  one  of  callous  magna- 
nimity. 

Meanwhile  her  intimacy  with  the  young  man  began  to 
ripen. 

One  evening  Janet  Philimore  invited  her  to  dine  at  the 
Russian  circle  of  a  great  womans'  club,  which  was  enter- 
taining Triona  at  dinner.  This  was  the  first  time  she 
had  seen  him  in  his  character  of  modest  lion;  the  first 
time,  too,  she  had  been  in  a  company  of  women  groping, 
however  clumsily,  after  ideals  in  unsyncopated  time. 
The  thin  girl  next  to  her,  pretty  enough,  thought  Olivia, 
if  only  she  had  used  a  powder  puff  to  mitigate  the  over- 
assertiveness  of  a  greasy  skin,  and  had  given  less  the 
impression  of  having  let  out  her  hair  to  a  bird  for  nest- 
ing purposes,  and  had  only  seized  the  vital  importance 
of  colour — the  untrue  greeny  daffodil  of  her  frock  not 
being  the  best  for  a  sallow  complexion — the  girl  next 
to  her,  Agnes  Blenkiron,  started  a  hectic  conversation 


126  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

by  enquiring  what  she  was  going  to  do  in  Baby  Week. 
The  more  ignorant  Olivia  professed  herself  to  be  of 
babies  and  their  antecedents,  especially  the  latter,  the 
more  indignantly  explicit  became  Miss  Blenkiron.  Olivia 
listened  until  she  had  creepy  sensations  around  the  roots 
of  her  hair  and  put  up  an  instinctive  hand  to  assure  her- 
self that  it  was  not  standing  on  end.  Miss  Blenkiron 
talked  feminist  physiology,  psychology,  sociological  ther- 
apeutics, until  Olivia's  brain  reeled.  Over  and  over 
again  she  tried  to  turn  to  her  hostess,  who  fortunately 
had  a  pleasant  male  and  middle-aged  neighbour,  but  the 
fair  lady,  without  mercy,  had  her  in  thrall.  She  learned 
that  all  the  two  or  three  thousand  members  of  the  club 
were  instinct  with  these  theories  and  their  aims.  She 
struggled  to  free  herself  from  the  spell. 

"I  thought  we  were  here  to  talk  about  Russia,"  she 
ventured. 

"But  we  are  talking  about  Russia."  Miss  Blenkiron 
shed  on  her  the  lambency  of  her  pale  blue  eyes.  "The 
future  of  the  human  race  lies  in  the  hands  of  the  millions 
of  Russian  babies  lying  in  the  bodies  of  millions  of 
Russian  women  just  waiting  to  be  born." 

A  flash  of  the  devil  saved  Olivia  from  madness. 

"That's  a  gigantic  conception,"  she  said. 

"It  is,"  Miss  Blenkiron  agreed,  unhumorously,  and 
continued  her  work  of  propaganda,  so  that  by  the  time 
the  speeches  began  Olivia  found  herself  committed 
to  the  strenuous  toil  of  a  lifetime  as  a  member  of  she 
knew  not  what  societies.  The  only  clear  memory  she 
retained  was  that  of  a  tea  engagement  some  Sunday  in 
a  North  London  garden  city  where  Miss  Blenkiron  and 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  127 

her  brother  frugally  entertained  the  advanced  thinkers 
of  the  day. 

In  spite  of  the  sense  of  release  from  something  vam- 
piric,  when  the  speeches  hushed  general  conversation,  she 
recognized  that  the  strange  talk  had  been  revealing  and 
stimulating,  and  she  brought  a  quickened  intelligence  to 
the  comprehension  of  the  gathering.  To  all  these  women 
the  present  state  of  the  upheaved  world  was  of  vast  signif- 
icance. In  Lydia's  galley  no  one  cared  a  pin  about  it, 
save  Sydney  Rooke,  who  cursed  it  for  its  interference 
with  his  income.  But  here,  as  was  clearly  conveyed  in 
the  opening  remarks  of  the  chairwoman,  a  novelist  of 
distinction,  every  one  was  intellectually  concerned  with 
its  infinite  complexity  of  aspect.  To  them,  the  guest 
of  the  evening,  emerging  as  he  had  done  from  the  dizzy- 
ing profundities  of  the  whirlpool,  was  a  figure  of  uncanny 
interest. 

"It's  the  first-hand  knowledge  of  men  like  him  that 
is  vital,"  Miss  Blenkiron  whispered  when  the  chairwoman 
sat  down.  "I  should  so  much  like  to  meet  him." 

"Would  you?"  said  Olivia.  "That's  easily  managed. 
He's  a  great  friend  of  mine." 

And  she  was  subridently  conscious  of  having  acquired 
vast  and  sudden  merit  in  her  neighbour's  eyes. 

Triona  pleased  her  beyond  expectation.  The  function, 
so  ordinary  to  public-dinner-going  London,  was  new  to 
her.  She  magnified  the  strain  that  commonplace,  even 
though  sincere,  adulation  could  put  upon  a  guest  of 
honour.  She  felt  a  twinge  of  apprehension  when  he 
stood  up,  in  his  loose  boyish  way,  and  brushing  his 
brown  hair  from  his  temples,  began  to  speak.  But  in  a 


128  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

moment  or  two  all  such  feelings  vanished.  He  spoke 
to  this  assembly  of  a  hundred,  mostly  women,  much  as, 
in  moments  of  enthusiasm,  he  would  speak  to  her.  And, 
indeed,  often  catching  her  eye,  he  did  speak  to  her,  subtly 
and  flatteringly  bringing  her  to  his  side.  Her  heart  beat 
a  bit  faster  when,  glancing  around  and  seeing  every  one 
hanging  on  his  words,  she  realized  that  she  alone,  of  all 
this  little  multitude,  held  a  golden  key  to  the  mystery 
of  the  real  man.  There  he  talked,  with  the  familiar 
sway  of  the  shoulders,  and,  when  seeking  for  a  phrase, 
with  the  nervous  plucking  of  his  lips;  talked  in  his 
nervous,  picturesque  fashion,  now  and  then  with  a  touch 
of  the  poet,  consistently  modest,  only  alluding  to  per- 
sonal experience  to  illustrate  a  point  or  to  give  verisimili- 
tude to  a  jest.  He  developed  his  feminist  theme  logically, 
dramatically,  proving  beyond  argument  that  the  future 
of  civilization  lay  in  the  hands  of  the  women  of  the  civil- 
ized world. 

He  had  a  great  success.  Woman,  although  she  knows 
it  perfectly  well,  loves  to  be  told  what  she  wants  and  the 
way  to  get  it:  she  will  never  follow  the  way,  of  course, 
having  a  tortuous,  thorny,  and  enticing  way  of  her  own; 
but  that  doesn't  matter.  The  principle,  the  end,  that 
is  the  thing:  it  justifies  any  amazing  means.  He  sat 
down  amid  enthusiastic  applause.  Flushed,  he  sought 
Olivia's  distant  gaze  and  smiled.  Then  she  felt,  thrill- 
ingly,  that  he  had  been  speaking  for  her,  for  her  alone, 
and  her  eyes  brightened  and  flashed  him  a  proud  mes- 
sage. 

She  met  him  a  while  later  in  the  thronged  drawing- 
room  of  the  club,  rather  a  shy  and  embarrassed  young 
man,  heading  a  distinct  course  toward  her  through  a 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  129 

swarm  of  kind  yet  predatory  ladies.  She  admired  the 
simple  craftsmanship  of  his  approach. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  home?"  he  asked. 

The  adorable  carelessness  of  twenty  shrugged  its 
shoulders. 

"I  don't  know.     The  Lord  will  provide." 

"If  you  can't  find  a  taxi,  will  you  walk?" 

The  question  implied  a  hope,  so  obvious  that  she 
laughed  gaily. 

"There  are  buses  also  and  tubes." 

"In  which  you  can't  travel  alone  at  this  time  of  night." 

She  scoffed:  "Oh,  can't  I?"  But  his  manifest  fear 
that  she  should  encounter  satyrs  in  train  or  omnibus 
pleased  her  greatly. 

"Father's  dining  at  his  club  close  by  and  is  calling 
for  me.  He  will  see  that  you  get  home  safely,"  said 
Janet  Philimore. 

"It's  miles  out  of  your  way,  dear,"  said  Olivia.  "I'll 
put  myself  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Triona." 

So,  taxis  being  unfindable,  they  walked  together 
through  the  warm  London  night  to  Victoria  Street.  It 
was  then  that  he  spoke  of  his  work,  the  novel  just  com- 
pleted. Of  all  opinions  on  earth,  hers  was  the  one  he 
most  valued.  If  only  he  could  read  it  to  her  and  have 
the  priceless  benefit  of  her  judgment.  Secretly  flattered, 
she  modestly  depreciated,  however,  her  critical  powers. 
He  persisted,  attributing  to  her  unsuspected  qualities 
of  artistic  perception.  At  last,  not  reluctantly,  she 
yielded.  He  could  begin  the  next  evening. 

The  reading  took  some  days.  Olivia,  new  to  creative 
work,  marvelled  exceedingly  at  the  magic  of  the  artist's 
invention.  The  personages  of  the  drama,  imaginary  he 


130  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

said,  lived  as  real  beings.  She  regarded  their  creation 
as  uncanny. 

"But  how  do  you  know  she  felt  like  that?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled.  "I  can't 
conceive  her  feeling  otherwise." 

Yet,  for  all  her  wonder,  she  brought  her  swift  intelli- 
gence to  the  task  of  criticism.  Not  since  her  mother's 
illness  had  she  taken  anything  so  seriously.  She  lived 
in  the  book,  walking  meanwhile  through  an  unreal  world. 
Her  golden  words,  on  the  other  hand,  the  young  man 
captured  eagerly  and  set  down  in  the  margin  of  the  manu- 
script. Half-way  through  the  reading,  they  were  on 
terms  of  Christian  names.  Minds  so  absorbed  in  an 
artistic  pursuit  grew  impatient  of  absurd  formalities  of 
address.  They  slipped  almost  imperceptibly  into  the 
Olivia  and  Alexis  habit.  At  the  end  they  pulled  them- 
selves up  rather  sharply,  with  blank  looks  at  an  imme- 
diate future  bereft  of  common  interest. 

"I'll  have  to  begin  another,  right  away,  so  that  you 
can  be  with  me  from  the  very  start,"  he  said. 

"Have  you  an  idea?" 

"Not  yet." 

"When  will  you  have  one?" 

He  didn't  know.  What  man  spent  with  the  creative 
effort  of  a  novel  has  the  vitality  to  beget  another  right 
away?  He  feels  that  the  very  last  drop  of  all  that  he 
has  known  and  suffered  and  enjoyed  has  been  used  to 
the  making  of  the  book.  For  the  making  of  another 
nothing  is  left." 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  lie  fallow  for  a  week  or  so," 
said  the  young  optimist. 

"And  as  soon  as  things  begin  to  sprout  you'll  let  me 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  131 

know?"  asked  Olivia,  forgetful  that  before  harvest  there 
must  be  seed  time. 

He  promised;  went  home  and  cudgelled  tired  brains; 
also  cudgelled,  for  different  reasons,  an  untired  and  rest- 
less soul. 

Let  him  make  good,  not  ephemerally  as  the  pictur- 
esque narrator  of  personal  adventure,  but  definitely,  with 
this  novel  as  the  creative  artist — the  fervent  passion  of 
his  life — and  he  would  establish  himself  in  her  eyes,  in 
her  mind,  in  her  heart;  so  that  treading  solid  ground, 
he  could  say  to  her:  "This  is  what  I  am,  and  for  what 
I  am,  take  me.  All  that  has  gone  before  was  but  a  crude 
foundation.  I  had  to  take  such  rubbish  and  rubble  as 
I  could  find  to  hand."  But  until  then,  let  him  regard 
her  as  a  divinity  beyond  his  reach,  rendering  her  service 
and  worship,  but  forbearing  to  soil  her  white  robe  with 
a  touch  as  yet  unhallowed. 

Many  a  time,  they  could  have  read  no  more  that  day. 
Just  one  swift  movement,  glance  or  cry  on  the  part  of 
the  man,  and  the  pulses  of  youth  would  have  throbbed 
wildly  together.  He  knew  it.  The  knowledge  was  at 
once  his  Heaven  and  his  Hell.  A  less  sensitive  human 
being  would  not  have  appreciated  the  quivering  and  vital 
equipoise.  Many  a  time  he  parted  from  her  with  the 
farewell  of  comradely  intimacy  on  his  lips,  and  when 
the  lift  had  deposited  him  on  the  street  level  his  heart 
had  been  like  lead  and  his  legs  as  water,  so  that  he 
stumbled  out  into  the  lamp-lit  dark  of  night  like  a  par- 
alytic or  a  drunken  man. 

And  that  which  was  good  in  him  warred  fiercely  against 
temptations  more  sordid.  As  far  as  he  knew,  she  was 
a  woman  of  fortune.  So  did  her  dress,  her  habit  of  life, 


132  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

her  old  comfort-filled  Medlow  home,  proclaim  her.  Of 
her  social  standing  as  the  daughter  of  Stephen  Gale  who 
bawled  out  bids  for  yelts  and  rams  in  the  Medlow  mar- 
ket place,  he  knew  or  understood  very  little.  Her  for- 
tune was  a  fact.  His  own,  the  few  hundreds  which  he 
had  gained  by  Through  Blood  and  Snow,  was  rapidly 
disappearing.  The  failure  of  the  new  book  meant  star- 
vation or  reversion  to  Cherbury  News.  Married  to  a 
woman  with  money  he  could  snap  his  fingers  at  crust  or 
livery.  .  .  .  For  the  time  he  conquered. 

The  end  of  the  reading  coincided  more  or  less  with 
Midsummer  quarter-day.  Bills  from  every  kind  of  cov- 
erer  or  adorner  of  the  feminine  human  frame  fell  upon 
her  like  a  shower  of  autumn  leaves.  She  sat  at  her  small 
writing  desk,  jotted  down  the  amounts,  and  added  them 
up  with  a  much  sucked  pencil  point.  The  total  was 
incredible.  With  fear  at  her  heart  she  rushed  round  to 
her  bank  for  a  note  of  her  balance.  It  had  woefully 
decreased  since  January.  Payment  of  all  these  bills 
would  deplete  it  still  more  woefully.  The  rent  of  "The 
Towers"  and  the  diminishing  income  on  the  deposit 
account  were  trivial  items  set  against  her  expenditure. 
She  summoned  Myra. 

"We're  heading  for  bankruptcy." 

"Any  fool  could  see  that,"  said  Myra. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Live  like  Christians  instead  of  heathens,"  replied 
Myra.  "If  you  would  come  to  Chapel  with  me  one  Sun- 
day night  you  could  be  taught  how." 

Here  Myra  failed.  She  belonged  to  a  Primitive  Non- 
Conformist  Communion  whose  austere  creed  and  drab 
ceremonial  had  furnished  occasion  for  Olivia's  teasing 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  133 

wit  since  childhood.  Heathendom,  ever  divorced  from 
Lydian  pleasures,  presented  infinitely  more  reasons  for 
existence  than  Myra's  Calvinism. 

"It  seems  funny  that  a  dear  old  thing  like  you  can 
revel  in  the  idea  of  Eternal  Punishment." 

"I  haven't  got  much  else  to  revel  in,  have  I?"  said 
Myra  grimly. 

"I  suppose  that's  true,"  said  Olivia  thoughtfully. 
"But  it  isn't  my  fault,  is  it?  If  you  had  wanted  to 
revel,  mother  and  I  would  have  been  the  last  people  to 
prevent  you.  Why  not  begin  now?  Go  and  have  a 
debauch  at  the  pictures." 

"You  began  by  talking  of  bankruptcy,"  said  Myra. 

"And  you  prescribed  little  Bethel.  I'd  sooner  go 
broke." 

"You'll  have  your  own  way,  as  usual,"  said  Myra. 

"And  if  I  go  broke,  what'll  you  do?",  asked  Olivia, 
unregenerately  enjoying  the  conversation. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  put  you  together  again,"  replied 
Myra,  with  no  sign  of  emotion  on  her  angular,  withered 
face. 

Olivia  leaped  from  her  chair. 

"I'm  a  beast." 

"That  can't  be,"  said  Myra,  "seeing  that  it  was  I 
as  brought  you  up." 

That  was  the  end  of  the  argument.  Olivia  recognized 
in  Myra  every  useful  quality  save  that  of  the  financier. 
She  dismissed  Myra  from  her  counsels.  But  the  state 
of  her  budget  cost  her  a  sleepless  night  or  two.  At  the 
present  rate  of  expenditure  a  couple  of  years  would  see 
her  penniless.  For  the  first  time  since  her  emancipation 


134  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

from  Medlow  fetters  she  had  the  feeling  of  signing  her 
own  death-warrant  on  every  cheque.  Heroic  resolves 
were  born  of  these  days  of  depression. 

As  a  climax  to  her  worries,  came  Bobby  Quinton,  one 
afternoon.  What  had  he  done  to  offend  his  dearest  of 
ladies?  Why  had  she  stopped  the  dancing  lessons? 
Why  did  Percy's  see  her  no  more? 

"I'm  fed  up  with  Percy's  and  the  whole  gang,"  said 
Olivia. 

"Not  including  me,  surely?"  cried  the  young  man,  with 
a  dog's  appeal  in  his  melting  brown  eyes. 

She  was  kind.  At  first,  she  had  not  the  heart  to  pack 
him  off  to  the  froth  and  scum  of  social  life  to  which  he 
belonged.  He  had  the  charm  of  unsuccessful  youth  so 
pathetic  in  woman's  eyes. 

"If  you  are,"  said  he,  "I'm  done  for.  I've  no  one 
to  look  to  but  you,  in  the  wide  world." 

Here  was  responsibility  for  the  safety  of  a  human  soul. 
Olivia  gave  him  sound  advice,  repeating  many  an  old 
argument  and  feeling  enjoyably  maternal.  But  when 
Bobby  grew  hysterical,  and,  with  mutation  of  sex,  quoted 
the  Indian  Love  Lyrics  and  professed  himself  prepared 
to  die  beneath  her  chariot  wheels,  and  threatened  to  do 
so  if  she  disregarded  his  burning  passion,  she  admon- 
ished him  after  the  manner  of  twentieth-century  maiden- 
hood. 

"My  good  Bobby,  don't  be  an  ass." 

But  Bobby  persisted  in  being  an  ass,  with  the  zeal 
of  the  dement.  He  became  the  fervent  lover  of  the 
cinquecento  Bandello — and,  with  his  dark  eyes  and  hair, 
looked  the  part.  Imploring  he  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the 
divinity. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  135 

"That's  all  very  well,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Olivia,  un- 
moved by  his  rhapsody,  "all  very  nice  and  all  very  beauti- 
ful. But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Of  course  he  wanted  her  to  marry  him,  there  and  then: 
to  raise  him  from  the  Hell  he  was  in  to  the  Heaven  where 
she  had  her  pure  habitation.  With  her  he  could  do 
great  things.  He  guaranteed  splendid  achievements. 

"Before  a  woman  marries  a  man,"  said  Olivia,  "she 
rather  wants  an  achievement  or  two  on  account." 

"Then  you  don't  love  me,  you  don't  trust  me?"  ex- 
claimed the  infatuated  young  man,  ruffling  his  sleek  black 
hair. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  replied  Olivia,  growing  weary. 
"If  you  tell  me  what  sort  of  fascination  you  possess, 
I'll  give  it  due  consideration." 

"Then  I  may  as  well  go  away  and  blow  my  brains  out," 
he  cried  tragically. 

"You  might  better  go  and  use  such  brains  as  you  have 
in  doing  a  man's  work,"  retorted  Olivia. 

He  reproached  her  mournfully. 

"How  unkind  you  are." 

"If  you  came  here  as  a  window-cleaner  or  a  lift  porter 
I  might  be  kinder.  You're  quite  a  nice  boy,"  she  went 
on  after  a  pause,  "otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  you.  But  you  haven't  begun  to  learn  the 
elements  of  life.  You're  utterly  devoid  of  the  sense  of 
duty  or  responsibility.  Like  the  criminal,  you  know. 
Oh,  don't  get  angry.  I'm  talking  to  you  for  your  good. 
Pretending  to  teach  idle  women  worthless  dancing  isn't 
a  career  for  a  man.  It's  contemptible.  Every  man — 
especially  nowadays — ought  to  pull  his  weight  in  the 
world.  The  war's  not  over.  The  real  war  is  only  just 


136  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

beginning.  Instead  of  pulling  your  weight  you  think  it's 
your  right  to  sit  on  a  cushion,  a  passenger — or  a  Pekie 
dog — and  let  other  people  pull  you." 

"You  don't  understand " 

"Oh,  yes  I  do.  One  has  to  live,  and  at  first  we  take 
any  old  means  to  hand.  But  you've  been  going  on  at 
this  for  a  couple  of  years  and  haven't  tried  to  get  out  of 
it.  You  like  it,  Bobby " 

"I  loathe  it." 

"You  don't,"  she  went  on  remorselessly,  with  her  newly 
acquired  knowledge  of  what  a  man's  life  could  be.  "All 
you  loathe  is  the  work — especially  when  it  doesn't 
bring  you  in  as  much  money  as  you  want.  You  hate 
work." 

Resentment  gradually  growing  out  of  amusement  at 
his  presumptuous  proposal  had  wrought  her  to  a  pitch 
of  virtuous  indignation.  Here  was  this  young  man,  of 
cultivated  manners,  intelligent,  able-bodied,  attractive, 
rejecting  any  kind  of  mission  in  existence,  and 

"Look  here,  Bobby,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair 
by  the  tea-table  and  dominating  him  with  a  little  gesture, 
"don't  get  up.  You  sit  there.  You've  asked  me  to  marry 
you,  because  you  think  I'm  rich.  Hold  your  tongue," 
she  flashed,  as  he  was  about  to  speak.  "I'll  take  all  the 
love  and  that  sort  of  thing  for  granted.  But  if  I  was 
poor  you  wouldn't  have  thought  of  it.  At  the  back  of 
your  mind  you  imagine  that  if  I  married  you,  we  could 
lead  a  life  of  Percy's  and  the  Savoy  and  Monte  Carlo  and 
the  South  Sea  Islands,  and  you  needn't  do  another  stroke 
of  work  all  your  life  long." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  protesting  eagerly  that 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  137 

it  wasn't  true.  He  would  marry  her  to-morrow  were  she 
penniless.  She  had  his  salvation  soul  and  body  in  her 
hands.  He  hungered  for  work;  but  the  coils  of  his  pres- 
ent life  had  a  strangle-hold  on  him.  Suddenly  he  rose 
and  advanced  a  step  towards  her. 

"Listen,  Olivia.  If  you  won't  marry  me,  will  you  help 
me  in  other  ways?  I'm  desperate.  You  think  you  know 
something  about  the  world.  But  you  don't.  I'm  up 
against  it.  It  may  mean  prison.  For  the  love  of  God 
lend  me  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds." 

The  ugly  word  prison  sent  a  stab  through  her  heart; 
but  immediately  afterwards  the  common-sense  of  her 
Gale  ancestry  told  her  either  that  he  was  lying,  or,  if  it 
were  true,  that  he  deserved  it.  She  asked  coldly: 

"What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said.    "You  must  trust  me." 

"But  I  don't  and  that  is  why  I  can't  lend  you  two  hun- 
dred pounds." 

"You  refuse?" 

His  soft  voice  became  a  snarl  and  his  lip  curled  un- 
pleasantly back  beneath  the  little  silky  moustache. 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  dare,  after  all  the  encourage- 
ment you've  given  me." 

She  stared  at  him  aghast.     "Encouragement?" 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  make  me  dance  attendance  on  you 
at  Brighton?  Haven't  you  brought  me  here  over  and 
over  again?  You've  behaved  damnably  to  me.  You've 
made  me  waste  my  time.  I've  turned  other  women  who 
would  have  only  been  too  glad " 

In  horror,  she  flew  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 


138  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Go,"  she  said. 

And  speeding  across  the  hall  she  threw  open  the  flat 
door. 

"Go,"  she  said  again. 

She  crossed  the  landing  and  rang  the  lift  bell  and  re- 
turned to  the  hall,  where  he  met  her  and  threw  himself  on 
his  knees  and  looked  up  at  her  with  wild,  hunted  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,  Olivia.  For  God's  sake  forgive  me.  I 
was  mad.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  Shut  that 
door  and  I'll  tell  you  everything." 

But  Olivia  passed  him  by  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
stood  with  her  back  against  the  door  until  she  heard  the 
clash  of  the  lift  gates  and  the  retreating  footsteps  of 
Bobby  Quinton. 

A  short  while  ago  she  had  nearly  quarrelled  with 
Mauregard  because,  in  a  wordy  dissertation  on  the 
modern  young  men  who  lived  on  women,  he  instanced 
Bobby  as  possibly  coming  within  the  category.  Now  she 
knew  that  Mauregard  was  right.  She  felt  sick.  Also 
deadly  ashamed  of  her  superior  attitude  of  well-meant 
reprimand.  She  burned  with  the  consciousness  of  tongue 
in  cheek  while  he  listened.  Well,  that  was  the  end  of  the 
Lydian  galley. 

She  did  not  recover  till  the  next  afternoon,  when  Triona 
called  to  take  her  to  the  Blenkirons'  Sunday  intellectual 
symposium  in  Fielder's  Park.  She  welcomed  him  im- 
pulsively with  both  hands  outstretched,  as  a  justification 
of  her  faith  in  mankind. 

"You  can't  tell  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you." 

"And  you,"  said  he,  kissing  first  one  hand  and  then 
the  other,  "can't  tell  how  good  I  think  God  is  to  me." 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  brought  great  news.  Not  only  had  his  pub- 
lishers thought  well  of  the  novel  and  offered 
him  good  terms,  including  a  substantial  ad- 
vance, but  they  professed  themselves  able  to  place  it 
serially  in  England  for  a  goodly  sum.  They  had  also 
shown  him  the  figures  of  the  half-yearly  returns  on 
American  sales  of  Through  Blood  and  Snow  which  trans- 
cended his  dreams  of  opulence. 

"I  had  forgotten  America,"  he  said  naively. 

"You're  nothing,  if  not  original,"  she  laughed.  "That's 
what  I  like  about  you." 

He  insisted  on  the  wild  extravagance  of  a  taxi  to  the 
garden  city.  All  that  money  he  declared  had  gone  to 
his  head.  He  felt  the  glorious  intoxication  of  wealth. 
When  they  were  about  to  turn  off  the  safe  highway  into 
devious  garden-city  paths,  he  said: 

"Let  us  change  our  minds  and  go  straight  on  to  John 
o'  Groats." 

"All  right.    Let  us.    We're  on  the  right  road." 

He  swerved  towards  her.     "Would  you?     Really?" 

She  opened  her  bag  and  took  out  her  purse. 

"I've  got  fifteen  and  sevenpence.  How  much  have 
you?" 

"About  three  pounds  ten." 

She  sighed.  "This  unromantic  taxi  man  would  charge 
us  at  least  five  pounds  to  take  us  there." 

"We  can  turn  back  and  fill  our  pockets  at  the  bank." 

139 


140  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"It's  Sunday." 

"I  never  before  realized  the  blight  of  the  British  Sab- 
bath." 

"So  we're  condemned  to  Fielder's  Park." 

"But  one  of  these  days  we'll  go,  you  and  I  together, 
to  John  o'  Groats — as  far  as  we  can  and  then " 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  we'll  take  a  ship  and  sail  and  sail  until  we 
come  to  the  Fortunate  Isles." 

"You'll  let  Myra  come  too?"  said  Olivia,  deliciously 
anxious  to  keep  to  the  playful  side  of  an  inevitable  road. 

"Of  course.  We'll  find  her  a  husband.  The  cabin- 
boy.  Pour  mousse  un  cherubin." 

"And  when  we  get  to  the  Fortunate  Isles,  what  should 
we  do  there?" 

"We  shall  fill  our  souls  with  sunlight,  so  that  we  could 
use  it  when  we  came  back  to  our  work  in  this  dark  and 
threatening  modern  world." 

The  girl's  heart  leapt  at  the  reply. 

"I'll  go  up  to  John  o'  Groats  with  you  whenever  you 
like,"  she  said. 

But  the  taxi,  at  that  moment  drawing  up  before  the 
detached  toy  villa,  whose  "Everdene"  painted  on  the 
green  garden  gate  proclaimed  the  home  of  the  Blenk- 
irons,  inhibited  Triona's  reply. 

They  found  within  an  unbeautiful  assemblage  of  hu- 
mans inextricably  mingled  with  crumbling  cake  and 
sloppy  cups  of  tea  and  cigarette  smoke.  Agnes,  shining 
with  heat  and  hospitality,  gave  them  effusive  welcome 
and,  extricating  her  brother  from  a  distant  welter,  intro- 
duced him  to  the  newcomers.  He  was  a  flabby-faced 
young  man  with  a  back-thatch  of  short  rufous  hair  sur- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  141 

mounting  a  bald  forehead.  By  his  ears  grew  little 
patches  of  side  whiskers.  He  wore  an  old  unbuttoned 
Norfolk  jacket  and  a  red  tie  in  a  soft  collar  without  an 
under  pin.  He  greeted  them  with  an  enveloping  clammy 
hand. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come,  Miss  Gale.  So  glad  to  meet 
you,  Mr.  Triona.  We  have  heard  so  much  about  you. 
You  will  find  us  here  all  very  earnest  in  our  endeavour  to 
find  a  Solution — for  never  has  human  problem  been  so 
intricate  that  a  Solution  has  not  been  discovered." 

"What's  the  problem?"  asked  Olivia. 

"Why,  my  dear  lady,  there's  only  one.  The  Way  Out 
—or,  if  you  have  faith — The  Way  In."  He  caught  a 
lean,  thin-bearded  man  by  the  arm.  "Dawkins,  let  me 
introduce  you  to  Miss  Gale.  Mr.  Dawkins  is  our  rap- 
porteur." 

"You  haven't  any  tea,"  said  Dawkins  rebukingly,  as 
though  bidden  to  a  marriage  feast  she  had  no  wedding 
garment.  "Come  with  me." 

He  frayed  her  a  passage  through  the  chattering  swarm 
that  over-filled  the  little  bow-windowed  sitting-room  and 
provided  her  with  what  seemed  to  be  the  tepid  symbols  of 
the  brotherhood. 

"What  did  you  think  of  Roger's  article  in  this  week's 
Signal?" 

"Who  is  Roger,  and  what  is  The  Signal?"  Olivia  asked 
simply. 

Dawkins  stared  at  her  for  a  second  and  then,  deliber- 
ately turning,  wormed  his  path  away. 

Olivia's  gasp  of  surprise  was  followed  by  a  gurgle  of 
laughter  which  shook  her  lifted  cup  so  that  it  spilled.  The 
sight  of  a  stained  skirt  drew  from  her  a  sharp  exclama- 


142  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

tion  of  dismay.  Agnes  Blenkiron  disengaging  herself 
from  the  cluster  round  the  tea-table  came  to  the  rescue. 
What  was  the  matter?  Olivia  explained. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Agnes,  "I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
It's  my  fault.  Dawkins  is  such  a  touchy  old  thing. 
Roger,  of  course,  is  my  brother — didn't  you  know?  And 
The  Signal  is  our  weekly.  Dawkins  is  the  editor." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Olivia,  "but  ought  I  to  read 
The  Signal?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  replied  Agnes  Blenkiron  intensely. 
"Everybody  ought  to  read  it.  It's  the  only  periodical 
that  matters  in  London." 

Olivia  felt  the  remorse  of  those  convicted  of  an  un- 
pardonable crime. 

"I'll  get  a  copy  to-morrow  at  the  bookstall  at  Victoria 
Station." 

Agnes  smiled  in  her  haggard  way.  "My  dear,  an  organ 
like  The  Signal  doesn't  lie  on  the  bookstalls,  like  Comic 
Cuts  or  The  Fortnightly  Review.  It's  posted  to  private 
subscribers,  or  it's  given  away  at  meetings." 

"Who  pays  for  the  printing  of  it?"  asked  the  practical 
Olivia,  who  had  learned  from  Triona  something  of  the 
wild  leap  in  cost  of  printed  matter. 

Aubrey  Dawkins  finds  the  money.  He  gets  it  in  the 
City.  He  has  given  up  his  heart  and  soul  to  The  Signal" 

"I've  made  an  enemy  for  life,"  said  Olivia  penitently. 

Miss  Blenkiron  reassured  her.  "Oh,  no  you  haven't. 
We  haven't  time  for  enemy  making  here.  Our  business  is 
too  important." 

Olivia  in  a  maze  asked: 

"What  is  your  business?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  143 

"Why,  my  dear  child,  the  Social  Revolution.  Didn't 
you  know?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Olivia. 

She  learned  many  astonishing  things  that  afternoon, 
as  she  was  swayed  about  from  introduction  to  introduc- 
tion among  the  eagerly  disputing  groups.  Hitherto  she 
had  thought,  with  little  comprehension,  of  the  world- 
spread  social  unrest.  Strikes  angered  her  because  they 
interfered  with  necessary  reconstruction  and  only  set  the 
working  classes  in  a  vicious  circle  chasing  high  wages 
and  being  chased  in  their  turn  by  high  prices.  At  other 
demands  she  shuddered,  dimly  dreading  the  advent  of 
Bolshevism.  And  there  she  left  it.  She  had  imagined 
that  revolutionary  doctrines  were  preached  to  factory 
hands  either  secretly  by  rat-faced  agents,  or  by  brass- 
throated,  bull-necked  demagogues.  That  they  should  be 
accepted  as  a  common  faith  by  a  crowd  of  people  much 
resembling  a  fairly  well-to-do  suburban  church  congrega- 
tion stirred  her  surprise  and  even  dismay. 

"I  don't  see  how  intelligent  folk  can  hold  such  views," 
she  said  to  Roger  Blenkiron,  who  had  been  defending 
the  Russian  Soviet  system  as  a  philosophic  experiment  in 
government. 

He  smiled  indulgently.  "Doesn't  the  fault  lie  rather 
in  you,  dear  lady,  than  in  the  intelligent  folk?" 

"Would  that  argument  stand,"  she  replied,  "if  you  had 
been  maintaining  that  the  earth  was  flat  and  stood  still  in 
space?" 

"No.  The  roundness  and  motion  of  the  earth  are  as- 
certained physical  facts.  But — I  speak  with  the  greatest 
deference — can  you  assert  it  to  be  a  scientific  fact  that  a 


144  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

community  of  human  beings  are  a  priori  incapable  of  man- 
aging their  own  affairs  on  a  basis  of  social  equality?" 

"Of  course  I  can,"  Olivia  declared,  to  the  gentle 
amusement  of  standers-by.  "Human  nature  won't  allow 
it.  With  inequalities  of  brain  and  character  social  equal- 
ity is  impossible." 

"Dear  Lady" — she  hated  the  apostrophe  as  he  said  it 
and  the  lift  of  the  eyebrows  which  caused  an  upward  ripple 
that  was  lost  in  the  far  reaches  of  his  bald  forehead. 
"Dear  Lady,"  said  he,  "in  the  Royal  Enclosure  at  Ascot 
you  can  find  every  grade  of  human  intellect,  from  the 
inbred  young  aristocrat  who  is  that  much  removed" — he 
flicked  a  finger  nail — "from  a  congenital  idiot  to  the  acute- 
brained  statesman;  every  grade  of  human  character  from 
the  lowest  of  moral  defectives  to  the  highest  that  the 
present  civilization  can  produce.  And  yet  they  are  all  on 
a  social  equality.  And  why?  They  started  life  on  a 
common  plane.  The  same  phenomenon  exists  in  a  mass- 
meeting  of  working-men — in  any  assemblage  of  human 
beings  of  a  particular  class  who  have  started  life  on  a 
common  plane.  Now,  don't  you  see,  that  if  we  abolished 
all  these  series  of  planes  and  established  only  one  plane, 
social  equality  would  be  inevitable?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you're  going  to  do  it." 

"Ah!  That's  another  question.  Think  of  what  the 
task  is.  To  make  a  clean  sweep  of  false  principles  to 
which  mankind  has  subscribed  for — what  do  I  know — say 
— eight  thousand  years.  It  can't  be  done  in  a  day.  Not 
even  in  a  generation.  If  you  wish  to  render  a  pestilence- 
stricken  area  habitable,  you  must  destroy  and  burn  for 
miles  around  before  you  can  rebuild.  Extend  the  area 
to  a  country — to  the  surface  of  the  civilized  globe.  That's 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  145 

the  philosophic  theory  of  what  is  vulgarly  called  Bolshe- 
vism. Let  us  lay  waste  the  whole  plague-stricken  fabric 
of  our  civilization,  so  that  the  world  may  arise,  a  new 
Phoenix,  under  our  children's  hands." 

"You  have  put  the  matter  to  Miss  Gale  with  your 
usual  cogency,  my  dear  Roger,"  said  Dawkins,  who  had 
joined  the  group.  "Perhaps  now  she  may  take  a  less 
flippant  view  of  our  activities." 

He  smtled,  evidently  meaning  to  include  the  neophyte 
in  the  sphere  of  his  kind  indulgence.  But  Olivia  flushed 
at  the  rudeness  of  his  words. 

Triona  who,  hidden  from  Olivia  by  the  standing  group, 
had  been  stuffed  into  a  sedentary  and  penitential  corner 
with  two  assertive  women  and  an  earnest  young  Marxian 
gasfitter,  and  had,  nevertheless,  kept  an  alert  ear  on  the 
neighbouring  conversation,  suddenly  appeared  once  more 
to  her  rescue. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  he,  "but  to  one  who  has  gone 
through,  as  I  have  done,  the  Bolshevist  horrors  which  you 
advocate  so  complacently,  it's  your  view  that  hardly  seems 
serious." 

"Atrocities,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  seer-like  Daw- 
kins,  "are  proverbially  exaggerated." 

"There's  a  fellow  like  you  mentioned  in  the  Bible," 
retorted  Triona. 

"I  have  always  admired  Didymus  for  his  scientific 
mind,"  said  Dawkins. 

Triona  pulled  up  his  trouser  leg  and  exposed  his  ankle. 
"That's  the  mark  of  fetters.  There  was  a  chain  and  a 
twelve  pound  shot  at  the  end  of  it." 

"Doubtless  you  displeased  the  authorities,"  said  Daw- 
kins  blandly.  "Oh,  I've  read  your  book,  Mr.  Triona. 


146  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

But  before  judging  I  should  like  to  hear  the  other  side." 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Blenkiron,"  said  Triona,  growing 
white  about  the  nostrils,  to  his  host  who  stood  by  in  a  de- 
tached sort  of  manner,  with  his  hands  on  his  hips,  "I've 
unconsciously  abused  your  hospitality." 

Blenkiron  protested  cheerfully.  "Not  a  bit,  my  dear 
fellow.  We  pride  ourselves  on  our  broad  mindedness.  If 
you  preached  reactionary  Anglicanism  here  you  would  be 
listened  to  with  respect  and  interest.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  expect  the  same  consideration  to  be  shown  to  the 
apostles — if  you  will  pardon  the  word — of  our  advanced 
thought.  Your  experiences  were,  beyond  doubt,  very 
terrible.  But  we  admit  the  necessity  of  a  reign  of  terror. 
We  shall  have  it  in  this  country  within  the  next  ten 
years.  Possibly — probably — all  of  us  here  and  all  the 
little  gods  we  cling  to  will  be  swept  away  like  the  late 
Russian  aristocracy  and  intelligentsia.  But  suppose  we 
are  all — Dawkins,  my  sister,  and  myself — prepared  to 
suffer  martyrdom  for  the  sake  of  humanity,  what  would 
you  have  to  say  against  us?  Nay — you  can  be  quite 
frank.  Words  cannot  hurt  us." 

"I  should  say  you  ought  to  be  tied  up  in  Bedlam," 
said  Triona. 

"Do  you  agree  with  that,  Miss  Gale?"  said  Roger 
Blenkiron,  turning  on  her  suddenly. 

She  reflected  for  a  moment.  Then  she  replied:  "If 
you  can  prove  beyond  question  that  in  fifty  years'  time 
you  will  create  a  more  beautiful  world,  there's  something 
in  your  theories.  If  you  can't,  you  all  ought  to  be  shot." 

He  laughed  and  held  out  his  hand.  "That's  straight 
from  the  shoulder.  That's  what  we  like  to  hear.  Shake 
hands  on  it."  He  drew  a  little  book  from  his  pocket  and 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  147 

scribbled  a  memorandum.  "You're  on  the  free-list  of 
The  Signal.  I  think  Agnes  has  your  address.  You'll 
find  in  it  overwhelming  proof.  Perhaps,  Mr.  Triona,  too, 
would  like " 

But  Triona  shook  his  head.  "As  a  technical  alien  per- 
haps it  would  be  inadvisable  for  me  to  be  in  receipt  of 
revolutionary  literature." 

"I  quite  understand,"  smiled  Blenkiron,  returning  the 
book  to  his  pocket. 

Dawkins  melted  away.  Other  guests  took  leave  of 
their  host.  Triona  and  Olivia,  making  a  suffocating 
course  towards  the  door,  were  checked  by  Agnes  Blenk- 
iron who  was  eager  to  introduce  them  to  Tom  Pyefinch 
who,  during  the  war  had  suffered,  at  the  hands  of  a  capi- 
talist government,  the  tortures  of  the  hero  too  brave  to 
fight. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  cried  Olivia  horrified. 

Agnes  did  not  hear.  But  Pyefinch,  a  pallid  young 
man  with  a  scrubby  black  moustache,  was  too  greatly  oc- 
cupied with  his  immediate  circle  to  catch  his  hotess's  eye. 
From  his  profane  lips  Olivia  learned  that  patriotism  was 
the  most  blatant  of  superstitions:  that  the  attitude  of  the 
fly  preening  itself  over  its  cesspool  was  that  of  the  de- 
praved and  mindless  being  who  could  take  pride  in  being 
an  Englishman.  He  was  not  peculiarly  hard  on  England. 
All  other  countries  were  the  mere  sewerages  of  the  na- 
tionalities that  inhabited  them.  The  high  ideals  sup- 
posed to  crystallize  a  nation's  life  were  but  factitious  and 
illusory,  propagated  by  poets  and  other  decadents  in  the 
pay  of  capitalists:  in  reality,  patriotism  only  meant  the 
common  cause  of  the  peoples  floundering  each  in  its  sepa- 
rate sewer. 


148  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Mere  rats,  he  declared,  changing  his  metaphor.  That 
was  why  he  and  every  other  intelligent  man  in  the  coun- 
try refused  to  join  in  the  rat  fight  which  was  the  late  war. 

Olivia  clutched  Triona's  arm.  "For  God's  sake,  Alexis, 
let  us  get  out  of  this.  It  makes  me  sick." 

They  drew  deep  breaths  when  they  escaped  into  the 
fresh  air.  To  Olivia,  the  little  overcrowded  drawing- 
room,  deafening  with  loud  voices,  sour  with  the  smell 
of  milky  tea  and  Virginian  tobacco,  reeking  almost  physi- 
cally with  the  madness  of  anarchy,  seemed  a  miniature 
of  the  bottomless  pit.  The  irony  of  the  man's  talk — the 
need  to  purify  by  flame  a  plague-stricken  area !  God  once 
destroyed  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  Why  did  He  not  blast 
with  fire  from  heaven  this  House  of  Pestilence? 

Alexis  Triona  laughed  sympathetically  at  her  out- 
burst. 

"I  confess  they're  rather  trying,"  he  remarked. 
"Whenever  you  hear  English  people  say  they  belong  to 
the  intelligentsia,  you  may  be  sure  they're  frightened  at 
common  sense  as  not  being  intellectual  enough.  Blenk- 
iron  and  Dawkins  are  fools  of  the  first  water;  but  Pye- 
finch  is  dangerous.  I  am  afraid  I  lost  my  temper,"  he 
added  after  a  few  steps. 

"You  were  splendid,"  said  Olivia. 

More  than  ever  did  he  seem  the  one  clear-brained, 
purposeful  man  of  her  acquaintance  in  the  confused 
London  world.  Rapidly  she  passed  them  in  review  as 
she  walked.  Of  the  others  Mauregard  was  the  best ;  but 
he  was  spending  his  life  on  fribbles,  his  highest  heaven 
being  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  a  depraved  dancing-woman. 
Then,  Sydney  Rooke,  Mavenna,  and,  even  worse  now 
than  Mavenna,  the  unspeakable  Bobby  Quinton.  So 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  149 

much  for  the  Lydian  set  of  professed  materialists  and 
pleasure-seekers.  In  accepting  Agnes  Blenkiron's  invita- 
tion she  had  pleasurable  anticipation  of  entering  a  sphere 
of  earnest  thinkers  and  social  workers  who  might  guide 
her  stumbling  footsteps  into  the  path  of  duty  to  herself 
and  her  kind.  And  to  her  dismay  she  had  met  Dawkins 
and  Blenkiron  and  Pyefinch,  earnest,  indeed,  in  their 
sophistry  and  mad  in  their  theories  of  destruction.  Her 
brain  was  in  a  whirl  with  the  doctrines  to  which  she  had 
listened.  She  felt  terrified  at  she  knew  not  what.  Even 
Lydia's  cynical  world  was  better  than  this.  Yet  between 
these  two  extremes  there  must  be  a  world  of  high  en- 
deavour, of  science,  art,  philanthropy,  thought;  that  in 
which,  she  vaguely  imagined,  Blaise  Olifant  must  have 
his  being;  even  that  of  the  women  at  the  club  dinner. 
But  her  mind  shook  off  women  as  alien  to  its  subconscious 
argument.  In  this  conjectural  London  world  one  man 
alone  stood  out  typical — the  man  striding  loosely  by  her 
side.  A  young  careless  angel,  he  had  delivered  her  from 
Mavenna.  A  man,  he  had  exorcised  her  horror  of  Bobby 
Quinton.  And  now,  once  more,  she  saw  him,  in  her  girl- 
ish fancy,  a  heroic  figure,  sane,  calm,  and  scornful,  fac- 
ing a  horde  of  madmen. 

They  walked,  occasionally  losing  their  way  and  being 
put  on  it  by  chance  encounters,  through  the  maze  of  new 
and  distressingly  decorous  avenues,  some  finished,  others 
petering  out,  after  a  few  houses,  into  placarded  building 
lots  or  waste  land;  a  wilderness  not  of  the  smug  villa- 
dom  of  old-established  suburbs,  but  of  a  queer  bungalow- 
dom  assertive,  in  its  distinctive  architecture,  of  unreal 
pursuit  of  Aspirations  in  capital  letters.  Most  of  the 
avenues  abutted  on  a  main  street  of  shops  with  pseudo- 


150  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

artistic  frontages  giving  the  impression  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  City  could  only  be  induced  to  satisfy  the 
vulgar  needs  of  their  bodies  by  the  lure  of  the  aesthetic. 

"Don't  let  us  judge  our  late  friends  too  harshly,"  said 
Triona  waving  an  arm.  "All  this  is  the  Land  of  Self- 
Consciousness." 

At  last  they  made  their  way  through  the  solider,  stol- 
ider  fringes  of  the  main  road,  and  emerged  on  the  great 
thoroughfare  itself,  wide  and  unbusied  on  this  late  sum- 
mer Sunday  afternoon.  Prosaically  they  lingered,  wait- 
ing for  an  infrequent  omnibus. 

"Thank  goodness,  we're  out  of  the  Land  of  Self- 
Consciousness,"  said  Olivia.  "The  Great  North  Road  is 
too  big  a  thing." 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  smile. 

"I  don't  forget  your  love  of  big  things,"  said  he.  "It's 
inspiring.  Yes.  It's  a  big  thing.  And  it  doesn't  really 
begin  in  London.  It  starts  from  Land's  End — and  it  goes 
on  and  on  through  the  heart  of  England  and  through 
the  heart  of  Scotland  carrying  two  nations'  history  on  its 
flanks,  caring  for  nothing  but  its  appointed  task,  until 
it  sighs  at  John  o'  Groats  and  says:  'My  duty's  done.' 
There's  nothing  that  stirs  one's  imagination  more  than  a 
great  road  or  a  great  river.  Somehow  I  prefer  the  road." 

"You're  nearer  to  it  because  it  was  made  by  man." 

"How  our  minds  work  together!"  he  cried  admiringly. 
"I  only  have  to  say  half  a  thing  and  you  complete  it. 
More  than  that — you  give  my  meaningless  ideas  meaning. 
Yes.  God's  works  are  great.  But  we  can't  measure 
them.  We  have  no  scale  for  God.  But  we  have  for 
Man,  and  so  Man's  big  works  thrill  us  and  compel  us." 

"What  big  thing  could  we  do?"  asked  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  151 

"Do  you  mean  humanity — or  you  and  I  together?" 

"Two  human  beings  thinking  alike,  and  free  and 
honest."  Instinctively  she  took  his  arm  and  her  step 
danced  in  time  with  his.  "Oh,  you  don't  know  how  good 
it  is  to  feel  real.  Let  us  do  something  big  in  the  world. 
What  can  we  do?" 

"You  can  help  me  to  the  very  biggest  thing  in  all  the 
universe — for  me,"  he  cried,  pressing  her  arm  tight  against 
him. 

Her  pulses  throbbed.  She  knew  that  further  argument 
on  her  part  would  be  but  exquisite  playing  with  words. 
The  hour  which,  in  her  maidenly  uncertainty  she  had 
dreaded,  had  now  come,  and  all  fear  had  passed  away. 
Yes;  now  she  was  real;  now  she  was  certain  that  her 
love  was  real.  Real  man,  real  woman.  Her  heart  leaped 
to  him  with  almost  the  shock  of  physical  pain.  Again  in 
a  flash  she  swept  the  Lydian  and  the  Blenkiron  firma- 
ment and  exulted.  Yet  in  her  happiness  she  said  with 
very  foolish  and  with  very  feminine  guile: 

"Ah,  my  dear  Alexis,  that's  what  I've  longed  for.  If 
only  I  could  be  of  some  little  help  to  you!" 

"Help?"  He  laughed  shortly  and  halted  and  swung 
her  round.  "Have  you  ever  tried  to  think  what  you  are 
to  me?  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you?" 

She  disengaged  herself  and  walked  delicately  on. 

"It  may  pass  the  time  till  the  bus  comes,"  she  said. 

He  began  to  tell  her.  And  three  minutes  afterwards 
the  noisy,  infrequent  motor-bus  passed  them  by,  unheeded 
and  even  unperceived. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOMEWHERE  on  the  South  Coast,  screened  from 
the  vulgar  by  the  trap  of  a  huge  watering-place,  is 
a  long,  thin,  sandy  promontory  sticking  out  to 
sea,  like  an  innocent  rib  of  wilderness.  Here  there  is  no 
fun  of  the  fair,  because  there  is  no  fair  to  provide  the 
fun.  There  are  no  taverns,  no  boarding-houses,  no  lodg- 
ings. One  exclusive  little  hotel  rules  the  extreme  tip 
of  the  tongue  of  land  in  consort  with  the  miniature  jetty 
and  quay  by  which,  in  late  exciting  times,  strange  craft 
were  moored,  flying  the  white  ensign  and  hoar  with 
North  Sea  brine  and  deadly  secrets.  The  rest  of  the 
spit  is  peppered  with  a  score  of  little  shy  houses,  each 
trying  to  hide  itself  from  its  neighbours,  in  the  privacy 
of  its  own  sandpit.  If  your  house  is  on  the  more  de- 
sirable side  of  it,  you  can  look  out  over  the  vastness  of 
the  sea  with  the  exhilarating  certainty  (if  your  tempera- 
ment may  thereby  be  exhilarated)  that  there  is  nothing 
but  blue  water  between  you  and  the  coast  of  Africa. 
If  your  house  is,  less  fortunately,  on  the  other  side,  your 
view  commands  a  spacious  isle-studded  harbour  fringed 
by  distant  blue  and  mysterious  hills.  But  it  is  given  to 
any  one  to  walk  out  of  the  back  of  his  little  hermitage, 
and,  standing  in  the  dividing  road,  to  enjoy,  in  half  a  min- 
ute, both  aspects  at  once.  It  is  called  esoterically  by 
its  frequenters  "the  Point,"  so  that  the  profane,  map- 
searching,  may  not  discover  its  whereabouts. 
Just  high  enough  to  be  under  the  lee  of  a  sand-hill,  with 

152 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  153 

its  front  windows  and  veranda  staring  at  the  African 
coast,  some  thousand  miles  away,  stood  the  tiniest,  most 
fragile  and  most  absurd  of  the  habitations.  Its  name  was 
"Quien  Sabe,"  suggestive  of  an  imaginative  abandonment 
of  search  after  nomenclature  by  the  original  proprietor. 

"A  house  called  'Quien  Sabe' "  said  Alexis. 

"Is  the  house  for  us,"  cried  Olivia,  aglow. 

They  took  it  at  once,  without  question.  It  wasn't  as 
if  it  were  an  uncertain  sort  of  place,  like  "Normanhurst," 
or  "Sea  View."  The  name  proclaimed  frankly  the  cer- 
tainty of  venturesomeness.  And  Alexis  Triona,  sitting  on 
the  scrubby  grass  and  sand,  his  back  against  the  little 
veranda,  the  infinite  sea  and  all  the  universe  enveloped 
in  still  moonlight,  laughed  the  laugh  of  deep  happiness 
at  their  childish  inspiration.  He  rolled,  licked  and  lit 
the  final  cigarette.  Tobacco  was  good.  Better  was  this 
August  night  of  velvet  and  diamonds.  Below,  the  little 
stone  groin  shone  like  onyx.  The  lazy  surf  of  ebb-tide 
far  away  on  the  sand  of  a  tiny  bay  glimmered  like  the 
foam  in  fairyland. 

Only  half  the  man's  consciousness  allowed  itself  to  be 
drenched  with  the  beauty  of  the  night.  The  other  half 
remained  alert  to  a  voice,  to  a  summons,  to  something 
more  rare  and  exquisite  than  the  silver  air  and  murmuring 
sea  and  the  shine  of  all  the  stars.  A  few  minutes  before, 
languorous  by  his  side,  she  had  been  part  and  parcel  of  it 
all.  The  retreating  ripple  of  wave  had  melted  into  the 
softness  of  her  voice.  Her  laughing  eyes  had  gleamed 
importance  in  the  stellar  system.  The  sweet  throb  of  her 
body,  as  she  had  reclined,  his  arm  about  her,  was  rhythmic 
with  the  pulsation  of  the  night.  And  now  she  had  gone; 
gone  just  for  a  few  moments;  gone  just  for  a  few  mo- 


154  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

ments  until  she  would  divinely  break  the  silence  by  the 
little  staccato  cry  of  his  name;  but,  nevertheless,  her 
transitory  severance  had  robbed  this  outer  world  of  half 
its  beauty.  He  had  consciously  to  incorporate  her  in 
order  to  give  meaning  to  this  wonder  of  amethyst  and 
aquamarine  and  onyx  and  diamond  and  pearl  and  velvet 
and  the  infinite  message  of  the  immensities  coming  through 
the  friendly  silence  of  the  moon. 

They  had  been  married  all  of  a  sudden,  both  caught  up 
on  the  wings  of  adventure.  They  were  young,  free  as 
air.  Why  should  they  wait?  They  kept  it  secret,  a 
pair  of  romantics.  Only  Blaise  Olifant,  summoned  from 
Medlow,  and  Janet  Philimore  were  admitted  into  the 
conspiracy,  and  attended  the  wedding.  At  first  Olivia 
had  twinges  of  conscience.  As  a  well-conducted  young 
woman  she  ought  to  ask  her  old  friend,  Mr.  Trivett,  to 
stand  in  loco  parentis  and  give  her  away.  But  then  there 
would  be  Mrs.  Trivett  and  the  girls  to  reckon  with.  Mr. 
Fenmarch,  left  out,  might  take  offence.  The  news,  too, 
would  run  through  every  Medlow  parlour.  Old  John 
Freke,  in  his  weekly  letter  to  Lydia,  would  be  sure  to  al- 
lude to  the  matter;  and  it  was  Lydia  and  the  galley  that 
she  most  desired  to  keep  in  ignorance.  So  they  were  mar- 
ried, by  special  licence,  at  the  church  in  Ashley  Place,  one 
quiet,  sunny  morning,  in  the  presence  of  Myra  and  the 
two  witnesses  they  had  convened. 

As  they  emerged  into  the  sunshine  after  the  ceremony, 
Olifant  said  to  her: 

"I've  never  been  so  reluctant  to  give  anything  away 
in  my  life." 

"She  asked  a  laughing  "Why?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  155 

"Dog  in  the  manger,  I  suppose."  He  smiled  whimsi- 
cally. "I  shall  feel  more  of  a  bachelor  than  ever  when  I 
get  back." 

"You  needn't,  unless  you  like."  She  motioned  slightly 
with  her  head  towards  Janet,  talking  to  Alexis,  a  few  feet 
away.  "I've  not  been  too  busy  to  think  of  matchmaking. 
She's  the  dearest  of  girls." 

"But  not  my  landlady." 

Her  happy  laughter  rippled  forth,  calling  the  others 
near. 

"He  wants  a  law  forbidding  the  marriage  of  landladies. 
But  think  of  the  advantage.  Now  you  can  have  your 
landlady  to  stay  with  you — in  strict  propriety — if  you 
will  ask  us." 

"We  settled  that  with  Alexis  last  night,"  said  he. 

Three  taxis  were  waiting.  One  for  the  bride  and 
bridegroom.  One,  already  piled  with  luggage,  for  Myra 
who  after  being  fervently  kissed  in  the  vestry  by  Olivia, 
had  said  by  way  of  congratulation: 

"Well,  dearie,  it's  better  than  being  married  in  a  Regis- 
try Office,"  and  had  gone  forth  unemotionally  to  see  that 
the  trunks  were  still  there.  And  one  for  Olifant  and 
Janet.  They  drove  to  the  station,  to  the  train  which 
was  to  take  them  on  their  way  to  the  home  which  in 
their  romanticism  they  had  never  troubled  to  see. 

"I'm  sure  it's  all  right,"  said  Janet,  who  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  their  taking  "Quien  Sabe."  "Father  and 
I'll  be  at  The  Point  in  a  fortnight.  If  you  don't  want  to 
see  us,  tie  a  white  satin  bow  on  the  gate  and  we  won't 
mind  a  bit." 

For  General  Philimore  was  the  happy  owner  of  one 
of  the  little  hermitages  on  The  Point,  and  like  a  foolish 


156  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

old  soldier  lived  there  in  holiday  times,  instead  of  letting 
it  for  the  few  summer  weeks  at  the  yearly  rental  of  his 
London  flat;  so  that  Janet  assumed  the  airs  of  an  au- 
thority on  The  Point,  and  wrote  stern  uncompromising 
business  letters  to  agents  threatening  them  with  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  daughter  of  a  Major-General,  if  a  "Quien 
Sabe"  swept,  garnished,  and  perfectly  appointed,  with  a 
charwoman,  ditto,  in  attendance,  did  not  receive  the 
bridal  pair. 

"It's  not  a  palace,  Mr.  Triona,"  she  said. 

"What  has  it  to  do  with  me?"  he  answered.  "A  dream 
nest  in  a  cliff  for  this  bird  wife  of  mine  is  all  I  ask  for." 

Olivia's  eyes  smiled  on  him.  Why  was  he  so  different 
from  the  rest  of  men — even  from  so  fine  a  type  as  Blaise 
Olifant?  She  appraised  them  swiftly.  The  soldier  had 
not  yet  been  sunk  into  the  scholar.  He  stood  erect,  clean 
built,  wearing  his  perfectly  fitting  grey  suit  like  uniform, 
his  armless  sleeve  pinned  across  his  chest,  his  lip  still 
bearing  the  smart  little  military  moustache,  his  soft  grey 
hat  at  ever  so  slightly  a  swaggering  angle  on  his  neatly 
cropped  head.  A  distinguished  figure,  to  which  his  long 
straight  nose  added  a  curious  note  of  distinction  and 
individuality.  But  all  that  he  was  you  saw  in  a  glance: 
the  gentleman,  the  soldier,  the  man  of  intellect.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  stood  the  marvellous  man  that  was 
her  husband,  hiding  behind  the  drawn  boyish  face  God 
knew  what  memories  of  pain  heroically  conquered  and 
God  knew  what  visions  of  genius.  Although  he  had  gone 
to  a  good  tailor  for  his  blue  serge  suit — she  had  accom- 
panied him — he  had  the  air  of  wearing  clothes  as  a  con- 
cession of  convention.  The  lithe  frame  beneath  seemed 
to  be  impatient  of  their  restraint.  They  fitted  in  an  easy 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  157 

sort  of  way,  but  were  dominated  by  his  nervous  eager 
personality.  One  flash  of  a  smile  illuminating  eyes  and 
thin  face,  one  flashing  gesture  of  hand  or  arm,  and  for 
ought  any  one  knew  or  cared,  he  might  be  dressed  in  chain 
armour  or  dungaree. 

The  little  speech  pleased  her.  She  slipped  her  hand 
through  the  crook  of  his  arm  in  the  pride  of  possession. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  an  undomesticated  pronounce- 
ment?" she  laughed.  "We're  going  to  change  all  that." 

And  the  train  carried  them  off  to  the  great  wonder  and 
change  of  their  lives. 

The  train  out  of  sight,  Blaise  Olifant  stuck  in  his  pocket 
the  handkerchief  he  had  been  waving,  and  turned  with  a 
sigh. 

"I  hope  she'll  be  happy." 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  asked  Janet  Philimore. 

She  was  a  bright-cheeked,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired 
girl,  with  a  matter-of-fact  manner.  . 

"I  know  of  no  reason,"  he  replied.  "I  was  expressing 
a  hope." 

He  saw  her  to  her  homeward-bound  omnibus  and 
walked,  somewhat  moodily,  on  his  road.  After  a  day 
or  two,  the  pleasures  of  London  proving  savourless,  he 
returned  to  Medlow.  But  "The  Towers"  no  longer 
seemed  quite  the  same.  He  could  not  tell  why.  The 
house  had  lost  fragrance. 

Meanwhile  the  pair  had  gone  to  the  little  toy  home 
whose  questioning  name  pointed  to  mystery.  There  were 
just  three  rooms  in  it,  all  opening  on  to  a  veranda  full 
in  sight  (save  for  the  configuration  of  the  globe)  of  the 
African  coast.  On  this  veranda,  sitting  back,  they  lost 


158  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

sight  of  the  whin-grown  slope  and  the  miniature  sandy 
cove  beneath;  and  their  world  was  but  a  welter  of  sea, 
and  its  inhabitants  but  a  few  gulls,  sweeping  and  swirl- 
ing past  them  with  a  shy  friendliness  in  their  yellow 
eyes.  In  a  dip  of  the  sand-hill,  just  behind  this  elemen- 
tary dwelling  and  communicating  with  it  by  a  short  cov- 
ered way,  stretched  an  old  railway  carriage  divided  into 
kitchen,  pantry,  bathroom,  and  bunks. 

"It's  the  craziest  place  I've  ever  seen,"  said  Myra. 
"People  will  be  living  in  old  aeroplanes  next." 

But  the  very  craziness  of  the  habitation  made  for  their 
selfish  joy.  The  universe,  just  for  these  twain,  had  gone 
joyously  mad.  A  cocky  little  villa  made  to  the  model  of 
a  million  others  would  have  defeated  the  universe's  be- 
nign intention.  Nothing  could  be  nearer  to  Triona's 
dream  nest  in  a  cliff.  Their  first  half-hour's  exploring, 
hand  in  hand,  was  that  of  children  let  loose  in  a  fairy 
tale  castle. 

"There's  only  one  egg-cup,"  croaked  Myra,  surveying 
an  exiguous  row  of  crockery. 

"How  many  more  do  we  want?"  cried  Olivia.  "We  can 
only  eat  one  egg  at  a  time." 

They  passed  out  and  stood  on  the  edge  of  their  small 
domain,  surveying  the  sandy  beach  and  the  seaweed  and 
shell-encrusted  groin  and  the  limitless  sea,  and  breathed 
in  the  soft  salt  wind  of  all  the  heavens  sweeping  through 
their  hair  and  garments,  and  he  put  his  arm  around  her 
and  kissed  her — and  he  laughed  and  said,  looking  into 
her  eyes: 

"Sweetheart,  Heaven  is  empty  and  all  the  angels  are 
here." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  159 

On  sunny  days  they  lived  in  the  sea,  drying  themselves 
on  their  undisturbed  half-moon  of  beach. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  swim?"  she  asked. 

He  hesitated  for  a  second,  casting  at  her  one  of  his 
swift,  half  furtive  glances.  Then  he  replied: 

"In  the  Volga." 

She  laughed.  "You're  always  romantic.  I  learned  at 
commonplace  Llandudno." 

"Where's  your  sense  of  relativity,  beloved?"  said  he. 
"In  Central  Russia  one  regards  the  coast  of  Wales  as 
fantastic  fairyland." 

"Still,  you  can  go  to  Llandudno  to-morrow,  if  you  like 
— taking  me  with  you,  of  course;  but  I  shall  never  swim 
in  the  Volga,  or  the  Caspian  Sea,  or  Lake  Baikal,  or  any 
of  those  places  with  names  that  have  haunted  me  since  I 
was  a  little  girl." 

"One  of  these  days  we'll  go — it  may  be  some  years, 
but  eventually  Russia  must  have  a  settled  Government 
— and  we'll  still  be  young." 

The  sun  and  the  hot  sand  on  which  she  lay,  adorable  in 
deep  red  bathing  kit  and  cap,  warmed  her  through  and 
through,  flooding  her  with  the  sense  of  physical  well- 
being.  It  was  impossible  that  she  should  ever  grow  old. 

"It's  something  to  look  forward  to,"  she  said. 

Sometimes  they  hired  a  boat  and  sailed  and  fished. 
She  admired  his  handiness  and  knowledge  and  prescience 
of  the  weather.  Once,  as  the  result  of  their  fishing,  they 
brought  in  a  basket  of  bass  and  gar-fish,  the  latter  a 
strange,  dainty  silver  beast  with  the  body  of  an  eel  and 
the  tail  of  a  trout  and  the  beak  of  a  woodcock,  and  in  high 
spirits  they  usurped  Myra's  railway-compartment  kitchen, 


160  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

while  he  fried  the  catch  for  lunch.  Olivia  marvelled  at 
his  mastery.  In  spite  of  her  sage  and  deliberate  putting 
aside  of  the  rose-coloured  glasses  of  infatuation,  in  what- 
ever aspect  she  viewed  him,  he  stood  supreme.  From  the 
weaving  of  high  romance  to  the  cooking  of  fish — the 
whole  gamut  of  human  activities — there  was  nothing  in 
which  he  did  not  excel.  Her  trust  in  him  was  infinite. 
She  lost  herself  in  happiness. 

It  took  some  days  to  arouse  her  to  a  sense  of  the  outer 
world.  A  letter  from  Lydia  reminded  her  of  her  friend's 
pleasant  ignorance.  With  the  malice  of  the  unregenerate 
feminine,  she  wrote:  "I'm  so  sorry  I  can't  be  brides- 
maid as  you  had  arranged.  How  can  I,  seeing  that  I  am 
married  myself?  It  happened  all  in  a  hurry,  as  the 
beautiful  things  in  life  do.  The  fuss  of  publicity  would 
have  spoilt  it.  That's  why  we  told  nobody.  This  is 
much  better  than  Dinard" — Sydney  Rooke's  selection  for 
the  honeymoon.  "I  haven't  worn  a  hat  since  I've  been 
here,  and  my  way  of  dressing  for  dinner  is  to  put  on 
a  pair  of  stockings;  sometimes  a  mackintosh,  for  we 
love  to  dine  on  the  veranda  when  it  rains.  It  rained 
so  hard  last  night  that  we  had  to  fix  up  an  umbrella 
to  the  ceiling  like  a  chandelier  to  catch  the  water  coming 
through  the  roof.  So  you  will  see  that  Alexis  and  I  are 
perfectly  happy.  By  the  way,  I've  not  told  you  what  my 
name  is.  It  is  Mrs.  Triona.  .  .  ."  And  so  on  and  so  on 
at  the  dictate  of  her  dancing  gladness,  freakishly  pictur- 
ing Lydia's  looks  of  surprise,  distaste,  and  reprobation  as 
she  read  the  letter.  Yet  she  finished  graciously,  acknowl- 
edging Lydia's  thousand  kindnesses,  for  according  to  her 
lights  Lydia  had  done  her  best  to  put  her  on  the  only  path 
that  could  be  trod  by  comely  and  well-dressed  woman. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  161 

She  sealed  up  her  letter  and,  coming  out  on  to  the  ve- 
randa where  Alexis  was  correcting  the  proofs  of  an  ar- 
ticle, told  him  all  about  it. 

"Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  please  Lydia  and  go  to 
Dinard  and  wear  wonderful  clothes,  and  mix  with  fash- 
ionable folk,  and  have  expensive  meals  and  gamble  in  the 
Casino,  and  dance  and  do  our  duty  as  self-respecting 
people?" 

"You  have  but  to  change  yourself  into  whatever  fairy 
thing  you  like,  my  princess,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  follow 
you.  Where  you  are,  the  world  is.  Where  you  are  not, 
there  is  the  blankness  of  before  creation." 

Sitting  that  night,  with  his  back  against  the  veranda,  he 
thought  of  this  speech  of  the  afternoon.  Formulated  a 
bit  self-consciously,  it  was  nevertheless  true.  The 
landscape,  no  matter  what  it  was,  existed  merely  as  a 
setting  for  her.  Even  in  this  jewelled  wonder  of  moonlit 
sea  and  sky  there  was  the  gap  of  the  central  gem. 

He  rolled  and  lit  another  cigarette — this  time,  surely, 
the  very  last.  Why  she  took  so  long  to  disrobe,  he  never 
strove  to  conjecture.  Her  exquisite  feminine  distance 
from  him  was  a  conception  too  tremulous  to  be  gripped 
with  a  rough  hand  and  brutally  examined.  That  was  the 
lure  and  the  delight  of  her,  mystical,  paradoxical — he 
could  define  it  only  vaguely  as  the  nearness  of  her  set 
in  a  far-off  mystery.  At  once  she  was  concrete  and 
strong  as  the  sea,  and  as  elusive  as  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp  of 
his  dreams. 

Thus  the  imaginative  lover;  the  man  who,  by  imagin- 
ing fantasies  to  be  real,  had  made  them  real;  who,  grasp- 
ing realities,  had  woven  round  them  the  poet's  fantasy. 


162  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

And  meanwhile  Olivia,  secure  in  her  happiness,  kept 
him  waiting  and  dreaming  because  she  had  made  a  roman- 
tic vow  to  record,  before  going  to  sleep,  each  day's  pre- 
cious happenings  in  a  diary  which  she  kept  under  lock 
and  key  in  her  dressing-case.  She  wrote  sitting  up  in  bed, 
and  now  and  then  she  sniffed  and  smiled  as  the  soft  air 
came  through  the  open  window  laden  with  the  perfume  of 
the  cigarette. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  the  course  of  time,  Janet  Philimore  and  her  at- 
tendant father,  the  General,  arrived  at  their  house 
on  The  Point,  and  as  Olivia,  apprised  of  their 
advent,  did  not  tie  a  white  satin  bow  on  her  gate,  General 
and  Miss  Philimore  left  cards  on  the  newly  wedded 
couple,  or,  more  exactly,  a  pencilled  leaf  torn  out  of  a 
notebook. 

Thus  arose  a  little  intimacy  which  Olivia  encouraged 
on  Alexis's  account.  Had  not  her  father  and  brothers 
trained  her  in  the  ways  of  men,  one  of  which  vital  ways 
was  that  which  led  to  the  social  intercourse  of  man  with 
man?  Besides,  it  was  a  law  of  sex.  If  she  had  not  a 
woman  to  talk  to,  she  declared,  she  would  go  crazy.  It 
was  much  more  comforting  to  powder  one's  nose  in  the 
privacy  of  the  gynaeceum  than  beneath  man's  unsympa- 
thetic stare.  Conversely  it  had  been  a  dictum  of  her 
father's  that,  in  order  to  enjoy  port,  men  must  be  released 
from  the  distracting  chatter  of  women. 

"If  I'm  not  broad-minded,  I'm  nothing,"  said  Olivia. 

"  'Broad'  is  inadequate,"  replied  her  husband,  thrust- 
ing back  his  brown  hair.  "The  very  wonder  of  you  is 
that  your  mind  is  as  wide  as  the  infinite  air." 

Which,  of  course,  was  as  pleasant  a  piece  of  informa- 
tion as  any  bride  could  receive. 

The  magic  of  the  halcyon  days  was  intensified  by  the 
satisfaction  of  the  sex  cravings  which,  by  the  symbolism 
of  nose-powdering  and  port-drinking,  Olivia  had  enun- 

163 


164  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

ciated.  In  the  deeps  of  her  soul  she  could  find  no  con- 
suming passion  for  sitting  scorched  in  a  boat  with  a 
baited  and  contemptuously  disregarded  line  between  ex- 
pectant finger  and  thumb.  She  could  not  really  under- 
stand the  men's  anxiety  to  induce  a  mentally  defective 
fish  to  make  a  fool  of  itself.  Yet  she  would  have  sat 
blissfully  for  hours  at  his  bidding,  for  the  mere  joy  of 
doing  as  she  was  bidden;  but  not  to  be  bidden  was  a  great 
relief.  Similarly,  Alexis  could  not  vie  with  Olivia  in 
concentration  of  being  over  the  selection  of  material  (in 
the  fly-trap  of  a  great  watering-place  previously  men- 
tioned) and  over  the  pattern  and  the  manufacture  by 
knitting  of  gaudy  hued  silk  jumpers.  His  infatuated  eye 
marvelled  at  the  delicate  swiftness  of  her  fingers,  at  the 
magical  development  of  the  web  that  was  to  encase  her 
adorable  body.  But  his  heart  wasn't  in  it.  Janet's  was. 
And  General  Philimore  brought  to  the  hooking  of  bass 
the  earnest  singleness  of  purpose  that,  vague  years  ago, 
had  enabled  him  to  ensnare  thousands  of  Huns  in  barbed- 
wire  netting. 

The  primitive  laws  of  sex  asserted  themselves,  to  the 
common  happiness.  The  men  fished;  the  women  fash- 
ioned garments  out  of  raw  material.  We  can't  get  away 
from  the  essentials  of  the  Stone  Age.  And  why  in  the 
world  should  we? 

But — and  here  comes  the  delight  of  the  reactions  of 
civilization — invariably  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
these  exclusive  sex-communings  was  filled  with  boredom 
and  impatience.  Alone  at  last,  they  would  throw  them- 
selves into  each  other's  arms  with  unconscionable  grace- 
lessness  and  say:  "Thank  Heaven,  they've  gone!"  And 
then  the  sun  would  shine  more  brightly  and  the  lap  of  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  165 

waves  around  them  would  add  buoyancy  to  their  bodies, 
and  Myra,  ministering  to  their  table  wants,  would  assume 
the  guise  of  a  high  priestess  consecrating  their  intimacy, 
and  the  moon  would  invest  herself  with  a  special  splen- 
dour in  their  honour. 

Now  and  then  the  four  came  together;  a  picnic  lunch 
at  some  spot  across  the  bay;  a  wet  after-dinner  rubber  at 
bridge,  or  an  hour's  gossip  of  old  forgotten  far-off  things 
and  battles  of  the  day  before  yesterday,  or — in  the 
General's  house — a  little  idle  music.  There  it  was  that 
Olivia  discovered  another  accomplishment  in  her  wonder- 
ful husband.  He  could  play,  sensitively,  by  ear — 
knowledge  of  notated  music  he  disclaimed.  Having  been 
impressed  as  a  child  with  the  idea  that  playing  from  ear 
was  a  sin  against  the  holy  spirit  of  musical  instruction, 
and  gaining  from  such  instruction  (at  Landsdowne  House 
— how  different  if  she  had  been  trained  in  the  higher 
spheres  of  Blair  Park!)  merely  a  distaste  for  mechanical 
fingering  of  printed  notes,  she  had  given  up  music  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  mingled  with  regret,  and  had  remained  un- 
musical. And  here  was  Alexis,  who  boasted  his  igno- 
rance of  the  difference  between  a  crotchet  and  an  arpeg- 
gio, racking  the  air  with  the  poignant  melancholy  of 
Russian  folk-songs,  and,  in  a  Puckish  twinkle,  setting 
their  pulses  dancing  with  a  mad  modern  rhythm  of  African 
savagery. 

"But,  dear,  what  else  can  you  do?"  she  asked,  after  the 
first  exhibition  of  this  unsuspected  gift.  "Tell  me;  for 
these  shocks  aren't  good  for  my  health." 

"On  the  mouth-organ,"  he  laughed,  "I've  not  met  any 
one  to  touch  me." 

It  was  not  idle  boasting.    On  their  next  rainy-day  visit 


166  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

to  the  neighbouring  town,  Olivia  slipped  into  a  toy  shop 
and  bought  the  most  swollenly  splendid  of  these  instru- 
ments that  she  could  find,  and  Alexis  played  "The  Mar- 
seillaise" upon  it  with  all  the  blare  of  a  steam  orchestrion. 

The  happy  days  sped  by  in  an  atmosphere  of  love  and 
laughter,  yet  filled  not  only  with  the  sweet  doings  of  idle- 
ness. Olivia  discovered  that  the  poet-artist  must  work, 
impelled  thereto  by  his  poet-artistry.  He  must  write  of 
the  passing  things  which  touched  his  imagination  and 
which  his  imagination,  in  turn,  transmuted  into  impres- 
sions of  beauty.  These  were  like  a  painter's  sketches, 
said  he,  for  use  in  after-time. 

"It's  for  you,  my  dear,  that  I  am  making  a  hoard  of 
our  golden  moments,  so  that  one  of  these  days  I  may  lay 
them  all  at  your  feet." 

And  he  must  read,  too.  During  the  years  that  the 
lucust  of  war  had  eaten,  his  educational  development  had 
stood  still.  His  English  literary  equipment  fell  far  short 
of  that  required  by  a  successful  English  man  of  letters. 
Vast  tracts  of  the  most  glorious  literature  in  the  world 
he  had  as  yet  left  unexplored.  The  great  Elizabethan 
dramatists,  for  instance.  Thick,  serious  volumes  from  the 
London  Library  strewed  the  furniture  of  the  wind-swept 
sitting-room.  Olivia,  caught  by  his  enthusiasm  and 
proud  to  identify  herself  with  him  in  this  feeding  of  the 
fires  of  his  genius,  read  with  him;  and  to  them  together 
were  revealed  the  clanging  majesty  of  Marlowe,  the 
subtle  beauty  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  the  haunting 
gloom  of  Webster.  In  the  evenings  they  would  sit,  lover- 
like,  the  book  between  them,  and  read  aloud,  taking  parts; 
and  it  never  failed  to  be  an  astonishment  and  a  thrill  to 
the  girl  when,  declaiming  a  fervid  passage,  he  seemed  for 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  167 

the  moment  to  forget  her  and  to  live  in  the  sense  of  the 
burning  words.  It  was  her  joy  to  force  her  emotion  to 
his  pitch. 

Once,  reading  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Philaster,  he 
clutched  her  tightly  with  his  left  arm,  while  his  right 
hand  upstretched,  invoked  unheeding  Heaven,  and  de- 
claimed: 

"And  then  have  taken  me  some  mountain  girl, 
Beaten  with  winds,  chaste  as  the  hardened  rocks 
Whereon  she  dwells;  that  might  have  strewn  my  bed 
With  leaves  and  reeds,  and  with  the  skins  o'  Beasts, 
Our  neighbours;  and  have  borne  at  her  big  breasts 
My  large  coarse  issue !  This  had  been  a  life 
Free  from  vexation." 

"But,  Alexis,  darling,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  cried. 

"Why?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  said  it  as  if  you  meant  it,  as  if  it  was  the  desire  of 
your  heart.  I'm  not  a  bit  like  that." 

They  laughed  and  kissed.    A  dainty  interlude. 

"You've  never  really  felt  like  that?" 

"Never." 

"The  idea  isn't  even  new,"  exclaimed  Olivia,  with  grand 
inversion  of  chronology.  "Tennyson  has  something  like 
it  in  Locksley  Hall.  How  does  it  go?" 

With  a  wrinkling  of  the  brow  she  quoted: 

"Then  the  passions  cramped  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and 

breathing  space 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

"Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive  and  they  shall 

run, 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the 
sun." 


168  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"So  he  did! "  cried  Triona.  "How  wonderful  of  you  to 
remember!  Why — the  dear  beautiful  old  thief!"  He 
forgot  the  point  at  issue  in  contemplation  of  the  literary 
coincidence  of  plagiarism.  "Well,  I'm  damned!  Such 
a  crib!  With  the  early  Victorian  veil  of  prudery  over  it! 
Oh,  Lord!  Give  me  the  Elizabethan,  any  day.  Yet, 
isn't  it  funny?  The  period-spirit?  If  Tennyson  had 
been  an  Elizabethan,  he  would  have  walked  over  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  like  a  Colossus;  but  in  a  world  under 
the  awe  of  Queen  Victoria's  red  flannel  petticoat  he  is 
reduced  to  stealing  Elizabethan  thunder  and  reproducing 
it  with  a  bit  of  sheet  iron  and  a  stick." 

"Dear,"  said  Olivia,  "we  have  much  to  be  thankful 
for." 

"You  and  I?"  he  queried. 

"Our  generation.  We  live  in  the  sun.  No  longer 
under  the  shadow  of  the  red  flannel  petticoat." 

Rapturously  he  called  her  a  marvel  among  women. 
Olivia's  common  sense  discounted  the  hyperbole;  but  she 
loved  his  tribute  to  her  sally  of  wit. 

The  book  slipped  to  the  floor,  while  she  began  an  argu- 
ment on  the  morality  of  plagiarism.  How  far  was  a  man 
justified  in  stealing  another  man's  idea,  working  up  an- 
other man's  material? 

His  sudden  and  excited  defence  of  the  plagiarist  sur- 
prised her.  He  rose,  strode  about  the  room  and,  talking, 
grew  eloquent;  quoted  Shakespeare  as  the  great  exemplar 
of  the  artist  who  took  his  goods  from  everywhere  he 
found  them.  Olivia,  knowing  his  joy  in  conversational 
fence,  made  smiling  attack. 

"In  the  last  three  hundred  years  we  have  developed  a 
literary  conscience." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  169 

"A  commercial  matter,"  he  declared.  "A  question  of 
copyright.  I  granted  that.  You  have  no  right  to  ex- 
ploit another  man's  ideas  to  his  material  loss.  But  take 
a  case  like  this" — he  paced  before  her  for  a  few  seconds 
— "on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  It  must  have  happened 
a  thousand  times  in  the  War.  An  unknown  dead  man 
just  a  kilometre  away  from  a  bleak  expanse  of  waste 
covered  with  thousands  of  dead  men.  Some  one  happens 
upon  him.  Searches  him  for  identification.  Finds  noth- 
ing of  any  use  or  interest  save  a  little  notebook  with 
leaves  of  the  thinnest  paper  next  his  skin.  And  he 
glances  through  the  book  and  sees  at  once  that  it  is  no 
ordinary  diary  of  war — discomfort  of  billets,  so  many 
miles'  march,  morale  of  the  men  and  so  forth — but  some- 
thing quite  different.  He  puts  it  in  his  pocket.  For  all 
that  the  modern  world  is  concerned,  the  dead  man  is  as 
lost  as  any  skeleton  dug  up  in  an  ancient  Egyptian  grave- 
yard. The  living  man,  when  he  has  leisure,  reads  the 
closely  written  manuscript  book,  finds  it  contains  rough 
notes  of  wonderful  experiences,  thoughts,  imaginings. 
But  all  in  a  jumble,  ill  expressed,  chaotic.  Suppose,  now, 
the  finder,  a  man  with  the  story-teller's  gift,  weaves  a 
wonderful  thrilling  tale  out  of  this  material.  Who  is 
injured?  Nobody.  On  the  contrary,  the  world  is  the 
richer." 

"If  he  were  honest,  he  ought  to  tell  the  truth  in  a 
preface,"  said  Olivia. 

Triona  laughed.  "Who  would  believe  him?  The 
trick  of  writing  false  prefaces  in  order  to  give  verisimili- 
tude is  so  overworked  that  people  won't  believe  the  genu- 
ine ones." 

"I  suppose  that's  so,"  she  acquiesced.    Her  interest  in 


170  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

the  argument  was  only  a  reflection  of  his.  She  was  far 
more  eager  to  resume  the  interrupted  reading  of  Philaster. 

"It's  lovely  that  we  always  see  things  in  the  same  way," 
said  he,  sitting  down  again  by  her  side. 

Besides  all  this  delightful  work  and  play  there  was  the 
practical  future  to  be  considered.  They  could  not  live 
for  ever  at  "Quien  Sabe"  on  The  Point,  nor  could  they 
live  at  the  Lord  knows  where  anywhere  else.  They  must 
have  a  home. 

"Before  you  stole  over  my  being  and  metamorphosed 
me,  I  should  have  asked — why?"  he  said.  "Any  old  dry 
hole  in  a  tree  would  have  done  for  me,  untli  I  got  tired  of 
it  and  flew  to  another.  But  now " 

"Now  you're  dying  to  live  in  a  nice  little  house  and 
have  your  meals  regular  and  pay  rates  and  taxes,  and 
make  me  a  respectable  woman." 

They  decided  that  a  house  was  essential.  It  would 
have  to  be  furnished.  But  what  was  the  object  of  buying 
new  furniture  at  the  present  fantastic  prices  when  she 
had  a  great  house  full  of  it — from  real  Chippendale  chairs 
to  sound  fish-kettles?  The  answer  was  obvious. 

"Why  not  Medlow?  Olifant  won't  stay  there  for 
ever.  He  hinted  as  much." 

She  shook  her  head.  No.  Medlow  was  excellent  for 
cabbages,  but  passion-flowers  like  her  Alexis  would  wilt 
and  die.  He  besought  her  with  laughing  tenderness  not 
to  think  of  him.  From  her  would  he  drink  in  far  more 
sunlight  and  warmth  than  his  passion-flower-like  nature 
could  need.  Had  she  not  often  told  him  of  her  love  for 
the  quaint  old  house  and  its  sacred  associations?  It. 
would  be  a  joy  to  him  to  see  her  link  up  the  old  life  with 
the  new. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  171 

"Besides,"  he  urged,  attributing  ber  reluctance  to 
solicitude  for  his  happiness,  "it's  the  common-sense  solu- 
tion. There's  our  natural  headquarters.  We  needn't 
stay  there  all  the  year  round,  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  When  we  want  to  throw  a  leg  we  can  run  away,  to 
London,  Paris,  "Quien  Sabe,"  John  o'  Groats — the  wide 
world's  before  us." 

But  Olivia  kept  on  shaking  her  head.  Abandoning 
metaphor,  she  insisted  on  the  necessity  of  his  taking  the 
position  he  had  gained  in  the  social  world  of  art  and 
letters.  Hadn't  he  declared  a  day  or  two  ago  that  good 
talk  was  one  of  the  most  stimulating  pleasures  in  life? 
What  kind  of  talk  could  Medlow  provide?  It  was  far 
more  sensible,  when  Major  Olifant's  tenancy  was  over, 
to  move  the  furniture  to  their  new  habitation  and  let 
"The  Towers"  unfurnished. 

"As  you  will,  belovedest,"  he  said.  "Yet,"  he  added, 
with  a  curious  note  of  wistfulness,  "I  learned  to  love  the 
house  and  the  sleepy  old  town  and  the  mouldering  castle." 

The  practical  decision  to  which  she  was  brought  out  of 
honeymoon  lotus-land  was  the  first  cloud  on  her  married 
happiness.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  before  that 
she  could  have  anything  to  conceal  from  her  husband. 
Not  an  incident  in  the  Lydian  galley  had  her  ingenuous- 
ness not  revealed.  But  now  she  felt  consciously  dis- 
ingenuous, and  it  was  horrible.  How  could -she  confess 
the  real  reason  for  her  refusal  to  live  in  Medlow?  Was 
she  not  to  him  the  Fairy  Princess?  He  had  told  her  so 
a  thousand  times.  He  had  pictured  his  first  vision  of  her 
glowing  flame  colour  and  dusk  beneath  the  theatre  portico, 
his  other  vision  of  her  exquisite  in  moonlight  and  snow- 
flake  in  the  great  silent  street.  His  faith  in  her  based 


172  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

itself  on  the  axiom  of  her  regality.  Woman-like,  she  had 
laughed  within  herself  at  his  dear  illusions.  But  that 
was  the  key  of  the  staggering  position;  his  illusions  were 
inexpressibly  dear  to  her;  they  were  the  priceless  jewels 
of  her  love.  With  just  a  little  craft,  so  sweet,  so  divinely 
humorous,  to  exercise  she  could  maintain  these  illusions 
to  the  end  of  time.  .  .  . 

But  not  at  Medlow. 

She  had  gone  forth  from  it,  on  her  pilgrimage,  in  order 
to  establish  herself  in  her  mother's  caste.  And  she  had 
succeeded.  The  name  of  her  grandfather,  Bagshawe  of 
the  Guides,  had  been  a  password  to  the  friendships  which 
now  she  most  valued.  Marriage  had  denned  her  social 
ambitions.  They  were  modest,  fundamentally  sane. 
Her  husband,  a  man  of  old  family  and  gentle  upbringing, 
ranked  with  her  mother  and  General  and  Janet  Philimore. 
He  was  a  man  of  genius,  too,  and  his  place  was  among 
the  great  ones  of  the  social  firmament. 

She  thought  solely  in  terms  of  caste,  gentle  and  intellec- 
tual. She  swept  aside  the  meretricious  accessories  of  the 
Sydney  Rooke  gang  with  a  reactionary  horror. 

A  few  days  before,  Alexis,  lyrically  lover  like,  had  said: 

"You  are  so  beautiful.  If  only  I  could  string  your  neck 
with  pearls,  and  built  you  a  great  palace  .  .  ."  etcetera, 
etcetera,  etcetera,  in  the  manner  of  the  adoring,  but  com- 
paratively impecunious  poet. 

And  she  had  replied: 

"I  don't  want  pearls,  palaces  or  motor-cars.  They're 
all  symbols,  my  dear,  of  the  Unreal.  Ordinary  comfort 
of  food  and  warmth  and  decent  clothes — yes.  But  that's 
all.  So  long  as  you  string  my  heart  with  love — and  my 
mind  with  noble  thoughts." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  173 

She  longed  passionately  to  live  with  him,  above  herself. 
And  yet,  here  at  the  outset,  was  she  living  below  herself. 
She  would  wake  in  the  morning  and,  sleepless,  grow  hot 
and  clammy  at  the  thought  of  her  deception.  And  the 
whole  of  her  Medlow  life  drifted  miserably  through  her 
consciousness:  the  schoolgirl's  bitter  resentment  of  the 
supercilious  nose  in  the  air  attitude  of  the  passing 
crocodile  of  Blair  Park;  of  the  vicar's  daughters'  con- 
descending nod — he  was  a  Canon  of  somewhere  and  an 
"Honourable"  to  boot— at  "that  pretty  Miss  Gale";  her 
recognition,  when  she  came  to  years  of  sense,  of  the  social 
gulf  between  her  family  and  the  neighbouring  gentry 
whose  lives,  with  their  tennis  parties  and  dances  and 
social  doings,  seemed  so  desirable  and  so  remote.  To 
bring  her  wonderful  husband  into  that  world  of  "homely 
folk,"  the  excellent,  but  uncultivated  Trivetts,  the  more 
important  tradespeople,  the  managers  of  the  mills,  the 
masters  of  the  County  School,  her  father's  world,  and  to 
see  him  rigidly  excluded  from  that  to  which  her  mother 
and  he  himself  belonged,  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
She  tortured  herself  with  the  new  problem  of  snobbery — 
rating  herself,  in  this  respect,  beneath  Lydia,  who  was 
frankly  cynical  as  to  both  her  own  antecedents  and  her 
late  husband's  social  standing.  But  for  the  life  of  her  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  explain  to  Alexis  the  real  im- 
possibility of  Medlow.  When  she  tried,  she  found  that 
his  foreign  upbringing  failed  to  seize  the  fine  shade  of  her 
suggestion. 

His  gay  carelessness  eventually  lulled  her  conscience. 
As  soon  as  Olifant  had  done  with  "The  Towers,"  they 
could  transfer  the  furniture  to  whatever  habitation  they 
chose  and  let  the  house. 


174  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I  feel  you  couldn't  find  it  in  your  heart  to  sell  the  old 
place,"  he  said.  "Besides — who  knows — one  of  these 
days " 

She  thought  him  the  most  delicately  perceptive  of  men. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  her  cheek  against  his.  "I  couldn't 
sell  it." 

Then  all  Medlow  danger  was  over.  She  breathed 
freely.  But  still — the  little  cloud  of  deceit  hung  over  her 
serene  mind  and  cast  ever  so  tiny  a  shadow  over  her 
rapturous  life. 

They  had  been  four  weeks  in  the  deliciously  sure  uncer- 
tainty of  "Quien  Sabe,"  when,  one  noon  while  they  were 
drying  themselves  in  the  hot  sand  and  sunshine  of  their 
tiny  bay,  after  a  swim,  Myra  came  down  gaunt  through 
the  whin-covered  hill-side  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand. 
With  the  perversity  of  her  non-recognition  of  the  house- 
hold paramountcy  of  her  master,  she  handed  the  envelope 
to  Olivia.  The  name  was  just  "Triona."  Olivia  was 
about  to  open  it  instinctively  when  Alexis  started  to  a 
sitting  position,  and,  with  an  eager  glance,  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  think  it's  for  me.  I  was  expecting  it.  Do  you 
mind?" 

She  passed  it  over  with  a  smile.  Alexis  rose  to  his 
feet,  tore  the  envelope  open,  and  moving  a  few  yards  away 
towards  the  surf  read  the  message.  Then  slowly  he  tore 
it  up  into  the  tiniest  fragments  and  scattered  them  on  the 
last  wavelets  of  the  ebb  tide,  and  stood  for  a  second  or  two, 
staring  across  the  sea.  At  last  he  turned.  Olivia  rose  to 
meet  him.  Myra  was  impassively  making  her  way  back 
up  the  rough  slope. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Olivia,  puzzled  at  his 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  175 

scrupulous  destruction  of  the  telegram  and  reading  some- 
thing like  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"I've  had  bad  news,"  he  said.  He  picked  up  his  bath- 
gown,  shook  it  free  from  sand,  and  huddled  it  around  him. 
"Let  us  get  up  to  the  house."  He  shivered.  "It's  cold." 

She  followed  him  wonderingly. 

"What  bad  news?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  his  head,  with  a  half-laugh.  "Nothing  so 
very  desperate.  The  end  of  the  world  hasn't  come  yet. 
I'll  tell  you  when  I've  changed." 

He  rushed  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda  and  into  his 
little  dressing-room.  Olivia,  dry  and  warm,  sat  in  a  sun- 
beat  chair  and  anxiously  waited  for  him.  The  instinct  of 
a  loving  woman,  the  delicacy  of  a  sensitive  soul,  forbade 
her  teasing  with  insistent  questions  a  man  thrown  for 
the  moment  off  his  balance.  Yet  she  swept  the  horizon  of 
her  mind  for  reasons. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards — it  had  seemed  a 
quarter  of  a  century — he  appeared,  dressed,  not  in  his 
customary  flannels,  but  in  the  blue  serge  suit  of  their 
wedding  day.  The  sight  of  it  struck  a  chill  through  her 
heart. 

"You  are  going  away?" 

He  nodded.     "Yes,  my  dear,  I  have  to." 

"Why?     What  has  happened?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,  dear.  That's  the  heart-rending  part 
of  it.  It's  secret — from  the  Foreign  Office." 

She  reacted  in  laughter.  "Oh,  my  darling — how  you 
frightened  me.  I  thought  it  was  something  serious." 

"Of  course  it's  serious,  if  I  have  to  leave  you  for  three 
or  four  days — perhaps  a  week." 

"A  week!"    She  stood  aghast.    It  was  serious.    How 


176  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

could  she  face  a  lonely  epoch  of  seven  days,  each  count- 
ing twenty-four  thousand  halting  hours?  What  did  it 
mean? 

"There  are  not  many  men  who  know  Russian  as  I  do. 
I've  been  in  touch  with  the  Intelligence  Department  ever 
since  I  landed  in  England.  That's  why  I  went  to  Finland 
in  the  autumn.  These  things  bind  me  to  inviolable 
secrecy,  beloved.  You  understand,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  understand,"  she  replied  proudly. 

"I  could  refuse — if  you  made  a  point  of  it.  I'm  a  free 
man." 

She  put  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders — and  ever  after 
he  had  this  one  more  unforgettable  picture  of  her — the 
red  bathing  cap  knotted  in  front,  dainty,  setting  off  her 
dark  eyes  and  her  little  eager  face — the  peignoir,  care- 
lessly loose,  revealing  the  sweet,  frank  mould  of  her  figure 
in  the  red  bathing  suit. 

"My  father  and  my  two  brothers  gave  their  lives  for 
England.  Do  you  think  I  could  be  so  utterly  selfish  as 
to  grudge  my  country  a  week  of  my  husband's  society?" 

He  took  her  cheeks  in  his  hands.  "More  and  more  do 
you  surpass  the  Princess  of  my  dreams." 

She  laughed.     "I'm  an  Englishwoman." 

"And  so,  you  don't  want  to  know  where  I'm  going?" 

She  moved  aside.  "Of  course  I  do.  I  shall  be  in  a 
fever  till  you  come  back.  But  if  I'm  not  to  know — well 
— I'm  not  to  know.  It's  enough  for  me  that  you're  serv- 
ing your  country.  Tell  me,"  she  said  suddenly,  catching 
him  by  the  coat  lapels.  "There's  no  danger." 

He  smiled.  "Not  a  little  tiny  bit.  Of  that  you  can 
be  assured.  The  worst  is  a  voyage  to  Helsingfors  and 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  177 

back.     So  I  gathered  from  the  telegram,  which  was  in 
execrable  Foreign  Office  Russian." 
"And  when  are  you  going?" 
"By  the  first  train.     I  must  report  to-night." 
"Can't  I  come  with  you — as  far  as  London?" 
He  considered  for  a  moment.     "No,"  he  said.     "Where 
would  you  sleep?     In  all  probability  I  shall  have  to  take 
the  midnight  boat  to  Havre." 

An  hour  later  they  parted.  She  returned  to  the  empty 
house  frightened  at  she  knew  not  what,  insecure,  terrify- 
ingly  alone;  she  was  fretted  by  an  uncanny  sense  of  hav- 
ing mated  with  the  inhabitant  of  another  planet  who  had 
suddenly  taken  wing  through  the  vast  emptiness  to  the 
strange  sphere  of  his  birth.  She  wandered  up  and  down 
the  veranda,  in  and  out  of  the  three  intimate  rooms,  where 
the  traces  of  his  late  presence,  books,  papers,  clothes,  lay 
strewn  carelessly  about.  She  smiled  wanly,  reflecting 
that  he  wore  his  surroundings  loosely  as  he  did  his  clothes. 
Suddenly  she  uttered  a  little  feminine  cry,  as  her  glance 
fell  on  his  wrist  watch  lying  on  the  drawing-room  mantel- 
piece. He  had  forgotten  it.  She  took  it  up  with  the 
impulsive  intention  of  posting  it  to  him  at  once.  But  the 
impulse  fell  into  the  nervelessness  of  death,  when  she 
remembered  that  he  had  given  her  no  address.  She  must 
await  his  telegram — to-morrow,  the  next  day,  the  day 
after,  he  could  not  say.  Meanwhile,  he  would  be  chaf- 
ing at  the  lack  of  his  watch.  She  worried  herself 
infinitely  over  the  trifle,  unconsciously  finding  relief  in 
the  definite. 

The  weary  hours  till  night  passed  by.  She  tried  to 
read.  She  tried  to  eat.  She  thought  of  going  over  the 


178  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

road  to  the  Philimores'  for  company;  but  her  mood  for- 
bade. For  all  their  delicacy  they  would  ask  reasons  for 
this  sudden  abandonment.  She  magnified  its  importance. 
She  could  have  said:  "My  husband  has  gone  to  London 
on  business."  But  to  her  brain,  overwrought  by  sudden 
emotion,  the  commonplace  excuse  seemed  inadequate. 
She  shrank  from  the  society  of  her  kind  friends,  who 
would  regard  this  interplanetary  mystery  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

If  only  Alexis  had  taken  his  watch !  Perhaps  he  would 
have  time  to  buy  another — a  consoling  thought.  Mean- 
while she  strapped  it  on  her  own  wrist,  heroically  resolved 
not  to  part  with  it  night  or  day  until  he  returned. 

She  sat  by  the  lamp  on  the  sitting-room  table,  looking 
out  over  the  veranda  at  the  pitch  blackness  of  a  breathless 
night  in  which  not  even  the  mild  beat  of  the  surf  could 
be  heard.  She  might  have  been  in  some  far  Pacific  desert 
island.  Her  book  lay  on  her  lap — the  second  volume  of 
Motley's  Dutch  Republic.  All  the  Alvas  and  Williams, 
all  the  heroes  and  villains,  all  the  soldiers  and  politicians 
and  burghers  were  comfortably  dead  hundreds  of  years 
ago.  What  did  these  dead  men  matter,  when  one  living 
man,  the  equal  of  them  all,  had  gone  forth  from  her,  into 
the  unknowableness  of  the  night? 

Myra  came  into  the  room  with  an  amorphous  bundle 
in  her  hand. 

"The  camp  bed  in  the  dressing-room  isn't  very  com- 
fortable— but  I  suppose  I  can  sleep  on  it." 

Olivia  turned  swiftly  in  her  chair,  startled  into  human 
realities. 

"No.    It's  a  beast  of  a  thing.     But  I  should  love  to 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  179 

have  you  to  be  with  me.  You're  a  dear.  You  sleep  in 
my  bed  and  I'll  take  the  dressing-room." 

"You  once  gave  signs  of  being  a  woman  of  sense,"  said 
Myra  tonelessly.  "It  seems  I  was  mistaken." 

She  disappeared  with  her  bundle.  Olivia  put  out  the 
light  and  went  to  bed,  where  she  lay  awake  all  the  night, 
fantastically  widowed,  striving  with  every  nerve  and  every 
brain-cell  to  picture  the  contemporaneous  situation  of  her 
husband.  Three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  would  be 
in  mid-Channel.  Had  he  secured  a  berth?  Or  was  he 
forced  to  walk  up  and  down  the  steamer's  deck?  Thank 
Heaven,  it  was  a  black  still  night.  She  stole  out  of  bed 
and  looked  at  the  sea.  A  sea  of  oil.  It  was  something 
to  be  grateful  for.  But  the  poor  boy  without  his  watch — 
the  watch  which  had  marked  for  him  the  laggard  minutes 
of  captivity,  the  racing  hours  of  approaching  death,  the 
quiet,  rhythmic  companion  and  recorder  of  his  amazing 
life. 

She  forced  all  her  will  power  to  sleep;  but  the  blank  of 
him  there  on  the  infinite  expanse  of  mattress  she  felt  like 
a  frost.  The  dawn  found  her  with  wide  and  sleepless 
eyes. 

And  while  she  was  picturing  this  marvel  among  men 
standing  by  the  steamer's  side  in  the  night,  in  communion 
with  the  clear  and  heavy  stars,  holding  in  his  adventurous 
grasp  the  secret  of  a  world's  peace,  Alexis  Triona  was 
speeding  northwards,  sitting  upright  in  a  third-class 
carriage,  to  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  And  at  Newcastle  he 
expected  no  ship  to  take  him  to  Finland.  Lucky  if  he 
found  a  cab  in  the  early  morning  to  take  him  to  his  desti- 
nation three  miles  away. 


180  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

For  the  telegram  which  he  had  torn  to  pieces  had  not 
come  from  the  War  Office.  It  was  not  written  in  Russian. 
It  was  in  good,  plain,  curt  English: 

"Mother  dying.    Come  at  once." 


CHAPTER    XIII 

ATAXICAB  took  him  in  dreary  rain  through  the 
squalor  of  Tyneside,  now  following  the  dismal 
tram  lines,  now  cutting  through  mean  streets, 
until  they  reached  a  row  of  low,  bow-windows  agglutinated 
little  villas  with  handkerchief  of  garden  separating  them 
from  the  road.    At  No.  17  he  dismissed  the  cab  and  swung 
wide  the  flimsy  gate.     Before  he  could  enter,  the  house 
door  opened  and  a  woman  appeared,  worn  and  elderly,  in 
a  cheap,  soiled  wrapper. 

"I  suppose  that's  you,  John.  I  shouldn't  have 
recognized  you." 

She  spoke  with  a  harsh,  northern  accent,  and  her  face 
betrayed  little  emotion. 

"You're  Ellen,"  said  he. 

"Aye.     I'm  Ellen.     You  didn't  think  I  was  Jane?" 

She  led  the  way  into  a  narrow  passage  and  then  into 
the  diminutive  parlour. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  he.  "Jane  died  three  years  ago. 
But  you  I  haven't  seen  since  I  was  a  child." 

She  looked  him  up  and  down:  "Quite  the  gentleman." 

"I  hope  so.     How's  mother?" 

She  gave  the  news  dully.  The  sick  woman  had  passed 
through  the  night  safely  and  was  now  asleep. 

"She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  see  you  before  she  died — 
she  always  was  strong  willed — and  that  has  kept  her  alive. 
Until  I  read  your  telegram  I  didn't  think  you  would 
come." 

181 


182  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He  flashed  one  of  his  quick  glances.  "Why  not? 
This  isn't  the  first  time  I've  come  to  see  her  since  my 
return.  If  I've  made  my  way  in  the  world,  that's  no 
reason  for  you  to  call  me  undutiful." 

"I  don't  want  to  quarrel,  John,"  she  said  wearily. 
"Yes.  I  know  about  your  visits  and  the  bit  of  money 
you  send  her.  And  she's  grateful,  poor  soul."  She 
paused.  Then:  "You'll  be  wanting  breakfast." 

"Also  a  wash." 

"Are  you  too  grand  for  the  sink,  or  must  you  have  hot 
water  in  your  room?" 

"The  sink  will  do.    It  will  be  less  trouble  for  you." 

Alexis  Triona  followed  her  down  the  passage,  and  hav- 
ing washed  himself  with  a  bit  of  yellow  soap  and  dried 
himself  on  the  coarse  towel  hung  on  a  stretch  of  string, 
went  into  the  tidy  kitchen,  hung  with  cheap  prints  and 
faded  photographs  of  departed  Briggses,  his  coat  over  his 
arm,  and  conversed  with  his  sister  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
while  she  fried  the  eggs  and  bacon  for  his  meal.  His 
readiness  to  fall  into  the  household  ways  somewhat 
mollified  her.  Her  mother  had  been  full  of  pride  in  the 
great  man  John  had  become,  and  she  had  expected  the  airs 
and  graces  of  the  upstart.  Living  at  Sunderland  with  her 
husband,  a  foreman  riveter,  and  her  children,  and  going 
filially  to  Newcastle  only  once  a  year,  she  had  not  met 
him  on  his  previous  visits.  Now  her  mother's  illness  had 
summoned  her  three  or  four  days  before,  when  the 
neighbour's  daughter  who  "did  for"  Mrs.  Briggs,  ordi- 
narily a  strong  and  active  woman,  found  the  sudden  situa- 
tion beyond  her  powers  and  responsibility.  So,  until  the 
ailing  lady  discoursed  to  her  of  the  paragon,  she  had 
scarcely  given  him  a  thought  for  the  sixteen  years  they 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  183 

had  been  separated.  Her  memories  of  him  as  a  child  who 
alternated  exasperating  mischief  with  bone-idle  fits  of 
reading  had  not  endeared  him  to  her  practical  mind;  and 
when  the  impish  dreamer  disappeared  into  the  vast  inane 
of  foreign  parts,  and  when  she  herself  was  driven  by  she 
knew  not  what  idiot  romanticalism  into  the  grey  worries 
of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  her  consciousness  recorded 
the  memory  of  a  brother  John,  but  whether  he  was  alive 
or  dead  or  happy  or  miserable  was  a  matter  of  illimitable 
unconcern.  Now,  however,  he  had  come  to  life,  very 
vivid,  impressing  her  with  a  certain  masterfulness  in 
his  manner  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  airs  and 
graces  she  despised.  Yet  she  still  regarded  him  with  sus- 
picion; even  when,  seating  himself  at  the  roughly  laid  end 
of  the  kitchen  table  and  devouring  bacon  and  eggs  with 
healthy  appetite,  he  enthusiastically  praised  her  cookery. 

"What  I  can't  understand  is,"  she  said,  standing  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table  and  watching  him  eat,  "why  the 
name  of  John  Briggs  isn't  good  enough  for  you." 

"It's  difficult  to  explain,"  said  he.  "You  see,  I've 
written  a  book.  Have  you  read  it?" 

She  regarded  him  scornfully.  "Do  you  suppose,  with 
a  husband  and  seven  children  I've  time  to  waste  on 
books?  I've  seen  it,"  she  admitted.  "Mother  has  it 
bound  in  brown  paper,  by  the  side  of  her  bed." 

"You  must  read  it,"  replied  Triona,  somewhat  relieved. 
"Then  you'll  see  why  I've  changed  my  name."  He 
laughed  at  her  uncomprehending  face.  "I've  done  noth- 
ing criminal,  you  know,  and  I'm  not  hiding  from  justice." 

"I  suppose  an  outlandish  name  brings  in  more  money," 
she  suggested  practically. 

"That's  so,"  said  he. 


184  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Fools  must  be  fools." 

He  acquiesced  gladly,  gauging  the  end  of  an  embarras- 
sing examination,  and  turned  the  conversation  to  her 
domestic  affairs. 

Breakfast  over,  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  watched  her  clear 
away,  viewing  through  the  smoke  the  memories  of  his 
childhood.  Just  so,  in  that  very  wooden  arm-chair, 
though  in  another  kitchen,  used  his  father  to  sit,  pipe 
in  mouth,  while  the  women  did  the  household  work.  It 
was  all  so  familiar,  yet  so  far  away.  Between  then  and 
now  stretched  a  lifetime — so  it  seemed — of  wide  and 
romantic  happenings.  There,  before  him,  on  the  wall 
hung,  as  it  did  years  ago,  the  haunting  coloured  print, 
cut  from  some  Christmas  Number,  of  young  Amyas 
Leigh  listening  to  Salvation  Yeo.  As  a  child,  Salvation 
Yeo's  long  arm  and  finger  pointing  out  to  sea  had  been  his 
inspiration.  He  had  followed  it,  and  gone  to  distant 
lands  and  gone  through  the  promised  adventures,  and 
had  returned  to  the  picture,  wondering  whether  all  that 
had  been  was  real  and  not  the  figment  of  a  dream. 

A  little  later,  after  the  doctor's  visit,  he  was  admitted 
to  his  mother's  room.  For  an  hour  or  so  he  sat  with 
her  and  gave  a  human  being  deep  happiness.  In  the 
afternoon  she  lost  consciousness.  For  a  day  or  two  she 
lingered  on,  and  then  she  died. 

During  the  dreary  interval  between  his  interview  and 
the  funeral,  Alexis  Triona  sat  for  many  hours  in  his 
father's  chair,  for  the  North  was  smitten  with  a  dismal 
spell  of  rain  and  tempest  which  discouraged  rambling 
out  of  doors,  reconstructing  his  life,  unweaving  fact  from 
fiction,  tearing  aside  the  veils  of  self-deception  wherein 
he  had  enwrapped  his  soul.  Surely  there  was  some 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  185 

basis  of  fact  in  the  romantic  history  of  Alexis  Triona 
with  which  for  the  past  year  he  had  identified  himself. 
Surely  a  man  could  not  dwell  so  intensely  in  an  imaginary 
life  if  none  of  it  were  real.  Even  while  tearing  open 
veils  and  viewing  his  soul's  nakedness,  he  sought  jus- 
tification. 

Did  he  not  find  it  in  that  eagerness  of  spirit  which 
had  sent  him,  in  obedience  to  Salvation  Yeo's  pointing 
finger,  away  from  the  dour  and  narrow  father  and  the 
first  taste  of  the  Tyneside  works,  penniless,  over  the 
wild  North  Sea  to  Archangel,  town  of  fairy  wonders,  and 
thence,  so  as  not  to  be  caught  on  the  ship  again  and 
taken  back  to  Newcastle,  to  wanderings  he  scarce  knew 
whither?  Did  he  not  find  it  in  the  strange  lure  of  Russia 
which  impelled  him,  when,  after  a  few  voyages,  he  landed 
in  the  port  of  London,  to  procure  a  passport  which  would 
make  him  free  for  the  land  of  his  fascination?  Did  he 
not  find  it  in  the  resourcefulness  of  brain  which,  the 
mariner's  life  forsaken,  first  secured  him  employment  in 
the  English  racing  establishment  of  a  Russian  Prince, 
and  then  interested  recognition  by  the  Princess  herself, 
so  that,  after  a  strenuous  while  he  found  himself  no 
longer  as  an  inconsiderable  stable  hand,  but  as  a  human 
being  who  counted  in  the  world?  Did  he  not  find  it  in 
his  fond  ambitions,  when  the  Princess  at  his  request 
transferred  him  from  stables  to  garage,  from  garage 
to  motor- works  for  higher  training;  when  he  set  him- 
self to  learn  Russian  as  no  Englishman  should  ever  have 
learned  it;  when  afterwards  he  steeped  his  mind  in 
Russian  poetry  and  folk-lore,  sleeping  four  or  five  hours 
a  night,  compelled  by  dreams  of  greatness  in  which  there 
figured  as  his  bride  of  the  golden  future  the  little  Princess 


186  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Tania,  whose  governess-taught  English  was  as  pure  as 
the  church  bells  on  a  frosty  night?  Did  he  not  find  it 
in  those  qualities  of  practical  command  of  circumstance 
and  of  poetic  vision  which  had  raised  him  in  a  few  years 
from  the  ragged,  semi-ignorant,  sea-faring  English  lout 
alone  in  Russia  to  the  trusted  chief  of  a  Prince's  fleet 
of  a  dozen  cars,  to  the  courier-chauffeur,  with  all  the 
roads  and  ways  and  customs  and  languages  of  Russia, 
from  Riga  to  Tobolsk,  and  from  Tobolsk  to  Tiflis,  and 
from  Tiflis  to  St.  Petersburg,  at  his  finger  tips;  to  the 
Master  of  Russian  Literature,  already  something  of  a 
published  poet,  admitted  into  intellectual  companionship 
by  the  Prince  and  thereby  given  undreamed  of  leisure 
for  further  intellectual  development?  What  were  those 
qualities  but  the  qualities  of  genius  differentiating  him 
from  the  ordinary  run  of  men  and  absolving  him  from 
such  judgments  as  might  be  passed  upon  the  errant  of 
them?  Without  this  absolving  genius  could  he  have 
marched  in  and  taken  his  place  in  the  modern  world  of 
English  letters? 

Meanwhile,  being  of  frugal  tastes,  he  had  grown  rich 
beyond  the  dream  of  the  Tyneside  urchin's  avarice.  He 
had  visions  of  great  motor-works,  the  manufacture  of 
an  all- Russian  car,  built  up  by  his  own  resources.  The 
princely  family  encouraged  him.  Negotiations  had  just 
begun — was  his  story  so  devoid  of  truth? — when  the 
great  world  cataclysm  brought  more  than  his  schemes 
for  an  all-Russian  car  toppling  to  the  ground.  The 
Prince's  household  was  disintegrated;  horses  and  cars 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  great  convulsion. 

He  found  himself  driving  generals  around  the  shell- 
scarred  front  as  a  volunteer,  for  being  of  British  nation- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  187 

ality  he  had  not  been  called  up  for  military  service. 
With  them  he  served  in  advances  and  retreats  and  saw 
battles  and  burnings  like  many  millions  of  other  men, 
but  from  the  comparative  safety  of  a  headquarters  car. 
It  was  not  until  he  ran  into  the  British  Armoured  Car 
Column  that  his  patriotism  took  fire,  and  he  became  a 
combatant  in  British  uniform.  He  remained  with  the 
Column  for  most  of  the  campaign.  Badly  wounded  to- 
wards the  end,  he  was  left  in  a  Russian  hospital,  a 
British  naval  rating.  He  remained  there  many  months; 
a  bullet  through  his  chest  had  missed  a  vital  part  and 
the  wound  had  soon  healed,  but  his  foot  had  gangrened, 
and  only  the  star  in  which  he  trusted  had  saved  it  from 
amputation.  There  was  no  fiction  about  the  three  lost 
toes  whose  gap  he  had  shown  to  Olifant. 

So  far  did  Alexis  Triona,  sitting  in  the  kitchen  arm- 
chair, salve  his  conscience.  In  his  story  had  he  done  more 
than  remodel  the  contour  of  fact?  Beneath  it  did  not 
the  living  essence  of  truth  persist?  Was  he  not  a  highly 
educated  man?  Had  he  not  consorted — before  the  cat- 
aclysm, and  later  in  the  strangely  filled  hospital — with 
the  young  Russian  intelligentsia,  who  talked  and  talked 

and  talked ?  Who  could  know  better  than  he  how 

Russia  had  floundered  in  their  tempestuous  ocean  of 
talk?  And,  finally,  had  he  not  gone,  stout-hearted, 
through  the  perils  and  hardships  and  exquisite  suffer- 
ings of  the  cataclysm? 

So  far,  so  good.  But  what  of  the  rest?  For  the.  rest, 
was  not  Fate  responsible? 

The  Revolution  came,  and  Russian  organization 
crumbled  like  a  castle  touched  with  an  enchanter's 
wand.  He  went  forth  healed  from  the  hospital  into 


188  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

chaos;  Petrograd,  where  his  little  fortune  lay,  his  ob- 
jective. Sometimes  he  found  a  foothold  on  an  aimless 
train.  Sometimes  he  jogged  weary  miles  in  a  peasant's 
cart.  Sometimes  he  walked.  When  he  learned  that 
British  uniform  was  no  longer  held  in  high  esteem  he 
changed  to  peasant's  dress.  So  far  his  journey  through 
revolutionary  Russia  was  true.  But  he  had  enough 
money  in  his  pocket  to  keep  him  from  want. 

And  then  arrived  the  day  which  counted  most  in  his 
life's  history,  when  that  which  he  had  recounted  to  Olivia 
as  a  fantastic  possibility  happened  in  sober  fact. 

He  had  been  given  to  understand  that  if  he  walked 
to  a  certain  junction  he  might  find  a  train  returning  to 
Petrograd.  Tired,  he  sat  by  the  wayside,  and  undoing 
his  wallet  ate  the  black  bread  and  dried  fish  which  he 
had  procured  at  the  last  village.  And,  while  eating,  he 
became  aware  of  something  gleaming  in  the  rank  grasses 
of  the  ditch — something  long  and  pallid  and  horrible. 
He  slid  down  and  found  a  dead  man,  stark  naked,  lying 
oh  his  back  with  the  contused  mark  of  a  bullet  hole 
in  his  chest.  A  man  of  fifty,  with  short-cropped,  grizzled 
hair  and  moustache,  and  clear,  refined  features.  He 
must  have  been  dead  two  days.  There  he  lay,  constricted 
of  limb,  stripped  of  everything  that  could  meaa  warmth 
or  comfort  or  money  to  his  murderers.  The  living  man's 
short  experience  told  him  that  such  things  were  not  un- 
common in  great  revolutions.  He  was  about  to  leave 
the  corpse — for  what  could  he  do? — when  his  eyes  caught 
the  glint  of  metal  a  few  feet  away.  It  was  a  pocket 
compass.  And  further  on  he  found  at  intervals  a  tooth- 
brush; a  coverless,  tattered  copy  of  Tacitus;  a  little 
faded  snapshot  of  a  woman  mounted  on  cardboard;  a 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  189 

vulcanite  upper  plate  of  half  a  dozen  false  teeth;  and 
a  little  fat  book  with  curling  covers  of  American  cloth. 
Had  he  continued  his  search  he  might  have  found  many 
other  objects  discarded  by  the  robbers  as  useless.  But 
what  was  the  good  of  pieces  of  conviction  for  a  judicial 
enquiry  that  would  never  take  place?  The  little  fat 
book,  which  on  opening  he  found  to  be  manuscript  in 
minute  handwriting,  he  thrust  in  his  pocket.  And  so  he 
went  his  way. 

But  on  his  way,  his  curiosity  being  aroused,  he  read 
in  the  little  book  an  absorbing  diary  of  amazing  adven- 
tures, of  hardships  and  prison  and  tortures  unspeak- 
able; and  without  a  thought  of  its  value,  further  than 
its  romantic  fascination,  he  grew  to  regard  it  during 
his  wanderings  as  his  most  precious  possession. 

So  far  again,  until  he  reached  Riga,  there  was  truth 
in  the  story  of  his  Russian  traverse.  Had  he  not  prowled 
suspect  about  revolutionary  Petrograd?  Had  not  the 
Prince  and  Princess,  the  idealized  parents  of  the  story, 
been  murdered  and  their  wealth,  together  with  his  own 
few  thousand  roubles,  been  confiscated?  Was  he  not  a 
fugitive?  Indeed,  had  he  not  seen  the  inside  of  a  hor- 
rible prison?  It  is  true  that  after  a  day  or  two  he  man- 
aged by  bribery  to  escape.  But  the  essence  of  things 
was  there — the  grain  of  fact  which,  under  the  sunlight 
of  his  genius,  expanded  into  the  splendid  growth  of  Truth. 
And  his  wit  had  served  him,  too.  His  guards  were  for 
taking  away  the  precious  book.  Knowing  them  to  be 
illiterate,  he  declared  it  to  be  the  manuscript  of  his  re- 
publican poem.  Challenged  to  read,  he  recited  from 
memory  verses  of  Shevchenko,  until  they  were  convinced, 
not  only  of  the  book's  contents,  but  of  his  own  revolu- 


190  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

tionary  opinions.  This  establishment  of  his  orthodoxy, 
together  with  a  few  roubles,  assured  his  escape.  And 
thence  had  he  not  gone  northwards,  hungry  and  footsore? 

And  had  he  not  been  torpedoed?  Cast  ashore  in  shirt 
and  trousers,  penniless?  Was  not  the  real  truth  of  this 
adventure  even  more  to  his  credit  than  the  fictitious  nar- 
rative? For,  a  naval  rating,  he  had  reported  to  a  British 
man-of-war,  and  had  spent  months  in  a  mine  sweeper 
in  the  North  Sea,  until  the  final  catastrophe  occurred. 
Then,  after  a  short  time  in  hospital  a  kindly  medical 
board  found  something  wrong  with  his  heart  and  sent 
him  out  into  the  English  world,  a  free  man. 

Yes.  His  real  record  was  one  that  no  man  need  be 
ashamed  of.  Why,  then,  the  fiction? 

Sitting  there  in  the  uncompromising  reality  of  his 
mother's  kitchen,  he  strove  for  the  first  time  to  answer 
the  question.  He  found  an  answer  in  the  obsession  of 
the  little  book.  During  the  scant  leisure  of  his  months 
at  sea  it  had  been  his  breviary.  More,  it  had  been  a 
talisman,  a  secret  scroll  of  enchantment  which,  wrapped 
in  oilskin,  never  left  his  person,  save  when,  beneath  the 
dim  lamp  of  the  fo'c'sle,  he  pored  over  it,  hunched  up 
against  a  bulkhead.  The  spirit  of  the  writer  whom  he 
had  seen  dead  and  naked,  seemed  to  have  descended  upon 
him.  In  the  bitter  watches  of  the  North  Sea  he  lived 
through  the  dead  man's  life  with  bewildering  intensity. 
There  were  times,  so  he  assured  himself,  when  it  became 
a  conscious  effort  to  unravel  his  own  experiences  from 
those  of  the  dead  man.  That  he  had  not  lived  in  remoter 
Kurdistan  was  unthinkable.  And,  surely  too,  he  had 
been  tortured. 

And  when,  in  the  attic  in  Cherbury  Mews,  impelled 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  191 

by  irresistible  force,  he  began  to  write  his  fantasia  of 
fact  and  imagination,  the  obsession  grew  mightier.  His 
pen  was  winged  with  flame. 

"Why,"  said  he,  half  aloud,  one  day,  staring  into  the 
kitchen  fire,  "why  should  it  not  be  a  case  of  psychic  ob- 
session for  which  I  am  not  responsible?" 

And  that  was  the  most  comforting  solution  he  could 
find. 

There  was  none  other.  He  moved  uneasily,  changing 
the  crossing  of  his  legs,  and  threw  a  freshly  rolled  and 
lighted  cigarette  into  the  grate.  It  was  a  case  of  psychic 
obsession.  Otherwise  he  was  a  barefaced  liar,  a  worm 
to  be  despised  by  his  fellow-men.  How  else  to  account 
for  the  original  lie  direct,  unreserved,  to  the  publisher? 
Up  to  then  he  had  no  thought  of  sailing  through  the 
world  under  false  colours.  He  had  to  give  the  mysterious 
dead  man  some  identity.  His  own  unconscious  creative 
self  clamoured  for  expression.  He  had  woven  the  dead 
man  and  himself  into  a  personality  to  which  he  had  given 
the  name  of  Alexis  Triona.  Naturally,  for  verisimilitude, 
he  had  assumed  "Alexis  Triona"  as  a  pen-name.  Be- 
sides, who  would  read  a  new  book  by  one  John  Briggs? 
The  publisher's  first  direct  question  was  a  blow  between 
the  eyes  under  which  he  reeled  for  a  few  seconds?  Then 
the  romantic,  the  psychic,  the  whatever  you  will  of  the 
artist's  touch  of  lunacy  asserted  itself,  and  John  Briggs 
was  consumed  in  ashes  and  the  Phoenix  Alexis  Triona 
arose  in  his  stead.  And  when  the  book  appeared  and 
the  Phoenix  leaped  into  fame,  what  could  the  Phoenix 
do,  for  the  sake  of  its  ordinary  credit,  but  maintain  its 
Phoenixdom? 

Until  now  it  had  been  the  simplest  matter  in  the  world, 


192  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

seeing  that  lie  half  believed  in  it  himself,  seeing  that  the 
identification  of  the  dead  man  with  himself  was  so  com- 
plete, that  his  lies,  even  to  himself,  had  the  generous  air 
of  conviction.  But  now,  in  the  uncompromising  John 
Briggs-dom  of  his  surroundings,  things  were  different. 
The  obsession  which  still  lingered  when  he  bade  Olivia 
adieu  had  vanished  from  his  spirit.  He  saw  himself 
naked,  a  mere  impostor.  If  his  past  found  absolution 
in  the  theory  of  psychic  domination,  his  present  was 
none  the  less  in  a  parlous  state. 

He  had  no  more  gone  to  Helsingfors  in  the  last  year's 
autumn  than  he  had  gone  there  now.  What  should  John 
Briggs,  obscure  and  demobilized  able  seaman,  have  to 
do  in  Helingfors?  Why  the  elaborate  falsehood?  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  helpless  gesture  with 
his  elbows.  The  obsession  again.  The  quietude  of 
Medlow  had  got  on  his  nerves.  He  had  to  break  away, 
to  seek  fresh  environment.  He  had  invented  Helsing- 
fors; it  was  dramatic,  in  his  romantic  past;  it  kept  up, 
in  the  direct  mind  of  Blaise  Olifant,  the  mystery  of  Alexis 
Triona;  and  it  gave  him  freedom.  He  had  spoken  truth 
as  to  his  vagabond  humour.  He  loved  the  eternal  change 
of  the  broad  highway.  The  Salvation  Yeo  inspiration 
had  persisted  ever  since  he  had  run  away  from  home  to 
the  Eldorado  beyond  the  seas.  Had  he  been  set  down 
in  a  torpid  household,  no  matter  how  princely,  sooner 
or  later  he  would  have  revolted  and  have  fled,  smitten 
with  the  wander  madness.  But  the  Prince,  the  nomadic 
Tartar  atavism  asserting  itself,  suffered  too  much  from 
this  unrest;  and  in  their  mighty  journeyings  through 
Russia,  up  and  down,  north  and  south,  east  and  west, 
and  in  the  manifold  adventures  and  excitements  by  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  193 

way,  the  young  chief  mechanic  found  the  needful  satis- 
faction of  his  cravings.  On  leaving  Medlow  he  had 
started  on  a  tramp,  knapsack  on  back,  to  the  north  of 
Scotland,  stopping  at  his  mother's  house,  en  route,  and 
had  reached  the  John  o'  Groats  whither,  on  an  eventful 
day,  Olivia  had  professed  herself  ready  to  accompany 
him.  She  had  little  guessed  how  well  he  knew  that  long, 
long  road.  .  .  .  Yet,  when  he  met  Blaise  Olifant  again, 
and  was  forced  to  vague  allusion  to  his  mythical  travels, 
he  almost  persuaded  himself  that  he  had  just  arrived 
from  Finland. 

But  now  had  come  an  irreparable  shifting  of  psycho- 
logical values.  He  could  not  return  to  Olivia,  eating  her 
heart  out  for  news  of  him,  and  persuade  himself  that  he 
had  been  to  Helsingfors.  The  lie  had  been  facile  enough. 
How  else  to  account  for  his  absence?  His  attendance  at 
his  mother's  death-bed  had  been  imperative:  to  disregard 
the  summons  had  never  entered  his  mind.  Yet  simple 
avowal  would  have  been  pulling  down  the  keystone  of 
the  elaborate  structure  which,  to  her,  represented  Alexis 
Triona.  The  parting  lie  had  been  easy:  but  the  lie  on 
his  return — the  inevitable  fabrication  of  imaginary  travel 
— that  would  be  hatefully  difficult.  For  the  first  time 
since  he  had  loved  her  he  was  smitten  with  remorse  for 
his  deception  and  with  terror  of  her  discovery. 

He  could  not  sleep  of  nights  aching  for  her,  shivering 
with  dread  at  the  possibility  of  loss  of  her,  picturing  her 
alone  in  the  sweet,  wind-swept  house,  utterly  trustful 
and  counting  the  long  hours  till  he  should  come  again. 
Still,  thank  God,  this  was  the  last  time  they  would  be 
parted.  His  mother  had  been  the  only  link  to  his  John 
Briggs  past. 


194  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

There  were  no  testamentary  complications,  which  he 
had  somewhat  feared.  His  mother  had  only  a  life  in- 
terest in  the  tiny  estate  which  went,  under  his  father's 
will,  to  his  sister  Ellen.  And  Ellen  did  not  count.  Ab- 
sorbed in  her  family  cares,  she  would  pass  out  of  his 
life  for  ever  without  thought  of  regret.  It  would  be  the 
final  falsehood. 

At  breakfast,  on  the  morning  of  the  funeral,  Ellen 
said  suddenly,  in  her  dour  way: 

"I've  been  reading  your  book.    It's  a  pack  of  lies." 

"It  would  have  been  if  I  had  signed  it  John  Briggs," 
he  answered.  "But  everything  in  it  is  true  about  Alexis 
Triona." 

"Your  ways  don't  seem  to  be  our  ways,  John,"  she 
remarked  coldly. 

He  felt  the  words  like  a  slap  in  the  face.  He  flushed 
with  anger. 

"How  dare  you?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  answered.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
it  with  mother  lying  cold  upstairs." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  forced  to  accept  the  evasive 
apology.  But  her  challenge  rankled.  They  parted  ston- 
ily after  the  funeral,  with  the  perfunctory  handshake. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  see  you  again." 

"It's  rather  unlikely,"  said  he. 

"Well,  good-bye."  ' 

"Good-bye." 

He  threw  himself  back  in  the  taxi-cab  with  a  great  sigh 
of  relief.  Thank  God  the  nightmare  of  the  past  few 
days  was  over.  Now  to  awaken  to  the  real  and  won- 
derful things  of  life — the  miraculous  love  of  the  dark- 
eyed,  quivering  princess  of  his  dreams:  the  work  which 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  195 

since  he  had  loved  her  had  grown  into  the  sacred  aim  of 
their  perfect  lives. 

And  just  as  he  had  wired  her  from  Newcastle  announc- 
ing his  sailing,  so  did  he  wire  her  when  he  reached  the 
railway  station. 

"Arrived.  All  well.  Speeding  straight  to  you  with 
love  and  longing." 

Olivia  smiled  as  she  kissed  the  telegram.  No  one  but 
her  Alexis  would  have  used  the  word  "speeding." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHE  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  little  South  Coast 
station,  where  decorum  had  to  cloak  the  rapture 
of  their  meeting.  But  they  sat  close  together, 
hand  in  hand,  in  the  hackney  motor-car  that  took  them 
home.  This  gave  him  an  intermediary  breathing  space 
for  explanation;  and  the  explanation  was  easier  than  he 
had  feared.  Really,  his  journey  had  been  almost  for 
nothing  and  had  afforded  little  interest.  The  agent 
whom  he  was  to  interview  having  been  summoned  back 
to  Russia  the  day  before  he  arrived,  he  had  merely  deliv- 
ered his  dispatches  to  the  British  authorities  and  taken 
the  next  boat  to  England.  It  was  just  a  history  of  two 
dull  sea  vdyages.  Nothing  more  was  to  be  said  about 
it,  save  that  he  would  go  on  no  more  fool's  errands  for  a 
haphazard  government. 

"Besides,  it's  too  dreadful  to  be  away  from  you." 
"It  has  been  awful  for  me,  too,"  said  Olivia.  "I  never 
imagined  what  real  loneliness  could  feel  like.  All  the 
time  I  thought  of  the  poor  solitary  little  dab  the  Bryce 
children  showed  us  the  other  day  in  the  biscuit-tin  of 
water.  Oh,  I  was  the  most  forsaken  little  dab." 

He  swore  that  she  should  never  be  lonely  again;  and, 
by  the  time  they  reached  their  house  by  the  sea,  he  had 
half-exultingly  dismissed  his  fictitious  mission  from  his 
mind.  All  the  apprehensions  of  the  narrow  Northern 
kitchen  melted  in  the  joy  of  her.  All  danger  had  van- 
ished like  a  naughty  black  cloud  sped  to  nothing  by  the 

196 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  197 

sun.  The  mythical  past  had  to  remain;  but  henceforward 
his  life  would  be  as  clear  to  her  as  her  own  exquisite  life 
to  him. 

In  their  wind-swept  home  they  gave  themselves  up 
to  deferred  raptures,  kissing  and  laughing  after  the  fool- 
ish way  of  lovers.  To  grace  his  return  she  had  filled 
the  rooms  with  flowers — roses  and  sweet  peas — which 
she  bought  extravagantly  in  the  neighbouring  seaside 
town.  The  scent  of  them  mingled  delicately  with  the 
salt  of  the  sea.  To  her  joy  he  was  quick  to  praise  them. 
She  had  wondered  whether  they  would  be  noticed  by 
one  so  divinely  careless  of  material  things.  He  even 
found  delight  in  the  meal  which  Myra  served  soon  after 
their  arrival — he  so  indifferent  to  quality  of  food. 

"Everything  is  you/'  said  he;  "scent  and  taste  and 
sight.  You  inform  the  universe  and  give  it  meaning." 

Her  eyes  grew  moist  as  she  swiftly  laid  her  hand  on 
his. 

"Am  I  really  all  that  to  you?"  She  laughed  with  a 
little  catch  in  her  throat.  "How  can  I  live  up  to  it?" 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "If  only  you  went 
on  existing  like  a  flower,  your  beauty  and  fragrance 
would  be  all  in  all  to  me.  But  you  are  a  flower  with  a 
bewildering  soul.  So  you  merely  have  to  be  as  you 
are." 

He  was  in  earnest.  Women  had  played  little  or  no 
part  in  his  inner  life,  which,  for  all  his  follies,  had  been 
lived  on  a  spiritual  plane.  His  young  ambitions  had 
been  irradiated  by  dreams  of  the  little  Princess  Tania, 
who  had  represented  to  him  the  ever-to-be-striven-for 
unattainable.  On  his  reaching  the  age  when  common 
sense  put  its  clammy  touch  on  fervid  imagination,  the 


198  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

little  Princess  had  been  given  away  in  marriage  to  a 
young  Russian  nobleman  of  vast  fortune,  and  he  him- 
self had  driven  her  to  the  wedding  with  naught  but  a 
sentimental  pang.  But  the  flower-like,  dancing,  elusive 
quality  of  her  had  remained  in  his  soul  as  that  which 
was  only  desirable  and  ever  to  be  sought  for  in  woman. 
And — miracle  of  miracles! — he  had  found  it  in  Olivia. 
And  she  was  warm  and  real,  the  glowing  incarnation  of 
the  cold  but  perfect  ghost  of  his  boyhood's  aspirations. 
She  was  verily  the  Princess  of  his  dream  come  true.  And 
she  had  an  odd  air  of  the  little  Princess  Tania — the 
same  dark,  wavy  hair  and  laughing  eyes  and  the  same 
crisp  sweetness  in  her  English  speech. 

Save  for  all  this  rapture  of  meeting,  they  took  up  the 
thread  of  their  lives  where  it  had  been  broken,  as  though 
no  parting  had  taken  place,  and  their  idyll  continued  to 
run  its  magic  course.  Triona  began  to  write  again:  some 
articles,  a  short  story.  The  shadow  shape  of  a  new 
novel  arose  in  his  mind,  and,  in  his  long  talks  with  Olivia, 
gradually  attained  coherence.  This  process  of  creation 
seemed  to  her  uncanny.  Where  did  the  people  come 
from  who  at  first  existed  as  formless  spirits  and  then, 
in  some  strange  way,  developed  into  living  things  of 
flesh  and  blood  more  real  than  the  actual  folk  of  her 
acquaintance?  Her  intimate  association  with  the  novel- 
ist's gift  brought  her  nearer  to  him  intellectually,  but  at 
the  same  time  set  him  spiritually  on  unattainable  heights. 
Meanwhile  he  called  her  his  Inspiration,  which  filled  her 
with  pride  and  content. 

The  lease  of  "Quien  Sabe"  all  but  expired  before  they 
had  settled  on  their  future  house.  Medlow  was  ruled 
out.  So  was  the  immediate  question  of  the  Medlow 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  199 

furniture,  they  having  given  Blaise  Olifant  another  year's 
tenancy. 

While  discussing  this  step,  he  had  said: 

"It's  for  you  and  you  only  to  decide.  Any  spot  on 
earth  where  you  are  is  good  enough  for  me.  By  instinct 
I'm  a  nomad.  If  I  hadn't  found  you,  I  should  have  gone 
away  somewhere  to  the  desert  and  lived  in  tents." 

Olivia,  who  had  seen  so  little  of  the  great  world,  felt  a 
thrill  of  pulses  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders — she 
was  standing  behind  his  chair — 

"Why  shouldn't  we?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  glanced  up  at  her.  The  way  of 
the  gipsy  was  too  hard  for  his  "English  flower.  She  must 
dwell  in  her  accustomed  garden.  In  practical  terms, 
they  must  settle  down  for  her  sake.  She  protested.  Of 
herself  she  had  no  thought.  He  and  his  work  were  of 
paramount  importance.  Had  they  not  planned  the  ideal 
study,  the  central  feature  of  the  house?  He  had  laughed 
and  mangled  Omar.  A  pen  and  a  block  of  paper  .  .  . 
and  Thou  beside  me,  etcetera,  etcetera. 

"I  don't  believe  you  want  to  settle  down  a  bit,"  she 
cried. 

He  swung  his  chair  and  caught  her  round  her  slim 
body. 

"Do  you?" 

"Eventually,  of  course " 

"But,  before  'eventually,'  don't  you  want  your  wan- 
der-year?" 

"France,  Italy "     She  became  breathless. 

"Honolulu,  the  Pacific,  the  wide  world.  Why  should 
we  tie  ourselves  to  a  house  until  we  have  seen  it  all?" 

"Yes,  why?     We  have  all  our  lives  before  us."    She 


200  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

sank  on  his  knee.  "How  beautiful!  Let  us  make 
plans." 

So  for  the  next  few  days  they  lived  in  a  world  of  vi- 
sions, catching  enthusiasm  one  from  the  other.  Again  he 
saw  Salvation  Yeo's  pointing  finger;  and  she,  in  the  sub- 
conscious relation  of  her  mind  with  his,  saw  it  too. 
House  and  furniture  were  Olifant's  as  long  as  he  wanted 
them. 

"We'll  go  round  the  world,"  Olivia  declared. 

With  a  twirl  of  his  finger — "Right  round,"  said  he. 

"Which  way  does  one  go?" 

He  was  somewhat  vague.  An  atlas  formed  no  part 
of  their  personal  equipment  or  of  the  hireling  penates  of 
"Quien  Sabe." 

"I'll  write  to  Cook's." 

"Cook's?  My  beloved,  where  is  your  sense  of  adven- 
ture?" 

"We  must  go  by  trains  and  steamers,  and  Cook's  will 
tell  us  all  about  them." 

She  had  her  way.  Cook's  replied.  At  the  quotation 
for  the  minimum  aggregate  of  fares  Alexis  gasped. 

"There's  not  so  much  money  in  the  world." 

"There  is,"  she  flashed  triumphantly.  "On  deposit 
at  my  bank.  Much  more." 

Who  was  right  now,  she  asked  herself,  she  or  the 
prosaic  Mr.  Trivett  and  Mr.  Fenmarch?  She  only  had 
to  dip  her  hands  into  her  fortune  and  withdraw  them 
filled  with  banknotes  enough  to  take  them  half  a  dozen 
times  round  the  world! 

Inspired  by  this  new  simplicity  of  things,  they  rushed 
up  to  London  by  an  incredibly  early  train  to  take  tickets 
then  and  there  for  the  main  routes  which  circumnavigate 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  201 

the  globe.  The  man  at  Cook's  dashed  their  ardour. 
They  would  have  to  pencil  their  passages  now  and  wait 
for  months  until  their  turn  on  the  waiting  lists  arrived. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  then  were  the  early  days 
of  Peace. 

"But  we  want  to  start  next  week!"  cried  Olivia  in  dis- 
may. 

The  young  man  at  Cook's  professed  polite  but  wearied 
sorrow  at  her  disappointment.  Forty  times  a  day  he  had 
to  disillusion  eager  souls  who  wanted  to  start  next 
week  for  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 

"It  is  most  inconvenient  and  annoying  for  us  to  change 
our  plans,"  Olivia  declared  resentfully.  "But,"  she 
added,  with  a  smile,  "it's  not  your  fault  that  the  world 
is  a  perfect  beast.  We'll  talk  it  over  and  come  to  you 
again." 

So  after  lunch  in  town  they  returned  to  The  Point, 
richer  in  their  knowledge  of  the  conditions  of  contem- 
porary world  travel. 

"We'll  put  things  in  hand  at  once  and  start  about 
Christmas,"  said  Alexis.  "Until  then " 

"We'll  take  a  furnished  flat  in  London,"  Olivia  decided. 

October  found  them  temporarily  settled  in  a  flat  in 
the  Buckingham  Palace  Road,  and  then  began  the  life 
which  Olivia  had  schemed  for  her  husband  before  these 
disturbing  dreams  of  vagabondage. 

Towards  the  end  of  their  stay  in  "Quien  Sabe"  various 
letters  of  enquiry  and  invitations  had  been  forwarded 
to  Triona  from  people,  back  now  in  London,  with  whom 
the  success  of  his  book  had  brought  him  into  contact. 
These,  careless  youth,  he  had  been  for  ignoring,  but  the 


202  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

wiser  Olivia  had  stepped  in  and  dictated  tactful  and  in- 
formative replies.  The  result  was  their  welcome  in  many 
houses  remote  from  the  Lydian  galley,  the  Blenkiron 
home  of  Bolshevism  and  even  the  easy  conservative  dull- 
ness of  the  circle  of  Janet  Philimore.  The  world  that 
danced  and  ate  and  dressed  and  thought  and  felt  to  the 
unvarying  rhythm  of  jazz  music  had  passed  away  like 
a  burnt-up  planet.  The  world  which  she  entered  with 
her  husband  was  astonishingly  new  with  curious  ramifica- 
tions. At  the  houses  of  those  whose  cultivated  pleasure 
in  life  it  is  to  bring  together  people  worthy  of  note  she 
met  artists,  novelists,  journalists,  actors,  publishers, 
politicians,  travellers,  and  their  respective  wives  or  hus- 
bands. Jealously,  at  first,  she  watched  the  attitude  of 
all  these  folk  towards  her  husband:  in  pride  and  joy  she 
saw  him  take  his  easy  place  among  them  as  an  equal. 
A  minority  of  silly  women  flattered  him — to  his  obvious 
distaste — but  the  majority  accepted  him  on  frank  and 
honourable  terms.  She  loved  to  watch  him,  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye,  across  the  drawing-room,  his  boyish 
face  flushed  and  eager,  talking  in  his  swift,  compelling 
way.  His  manners,  so  simple,  so  direct,  so  different  from 
the  elaboration  of  Sidney  Rooke,  even  from  the  cut-and- 
dried  convention  of  Mauregard,  had  a  charm  entirely 
individual.  There  was  no  one  like  him  in  the  world. 

In  their  turn,  many  of  the  people  of  note  they  met 
at  the  houses  of  the  primary  entertainers  invited  them 
to  their  homes.  Thus,  in  a  brief  time,  Olivia  found  her- 
self swept  into  as  interesting  a  social  circle  as  the  heart 
of  ambitious  young  woman  could  crave.  How  far  her 
own  grace  and  wit  contributed  to  their  success  it  never 
entered  her  head  to  enquire. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  203 

Triona,  light-hearted,  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasure 
of  this  new  existence.  He  found  in  it  stimulus  to  work, 
being  in  touch  with  the  thought  and  the  art  of  the  mo- 
ment. The  newness  of  his  Odyssey  having  worn  off,  he 
was  no  longer  compelled  to  dilate  on  his  extraordinary 
adventures;  people,  growing  unconsciously  impatient  of 
the  realistic  details  of  the  late  cataclysm,  conspired  to 
regard  him  more  as  a  writer  than  as  a  heroic  personage; 
wherein  he  experienced  mighty  relief.  He  could  talk 
of  other  things  than  the  habits  of  the  dwellers  round 
Lake  Baikal  and  the  amenities  of  Bolshevik  prisons. 
When  conversation  drifted  into  such  channels,  he  em- 
ployed a  craftiness  of  escape  which  he  had  amused  him- 
self to  develop.  Freed  from  the  obsession  of  the  little 
black  book,  he  regarded  his  Russian  life  as  a  phase  remote, 
as  a  tale  that  was  told.  His  facile  temperament  put  the 
whole  matter  behind  him.  He  lived  for  the  future,  when 
he  should  be  the  acknowledged  English  Master  of 
Romance,  and  when  Olivia's  burning  faith  in  his  genius 
should  be  justified.  He  threw  off  memories  of  Ellen  and 
the  kitchen  chair  and  went  his  way,  a  man  radiant  with 
happiness.  Each  day  intensified  the  wonder  of  his  wife. 
From  the  lips  and  from  the  writings  of  fools  and  philos- 
ophers he  had  heard  of  the  perils  of  the  first  year  of 
marriage;  of  the  personal  equations  that  seemed  impos- 
sible of  simultaneous  solution;  of  the  misunderstandings, 
cross-purposes,  quarrels  inevitable  to  the  attempt;  of 
the  hidden  snags  of  feminine  unreason  that  shipwrecked 
logical  procedure;  of  the  love-rasping  persistence  of 
tricks  of  manner  or  speech  which  either  had  to  be  vio- 
lently broken  or  to  be  endured  in  suffering  sullenness. 
At  both  fools  and  philosophers  he  mocked.  A  fiction, 


204  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

this  dogma  of  inescapable  sex  warfare.  Never  for  a 
second  had  a  cloud  arisen  on  their  horizon.  The  flaw- 
lessness  of  Olivia  he  accepted  as  an  axiom.  Equally 
axiomatic  was  his  own  faultiness.  In  their  daily  lives 
he  was  aware  of  his  thousand  lapses  from  her  standard 
of  grace,  when  John  Briggs  happened  to  catch  Alexis 
Triona  at  unguarded  moments  and  threw  him  from  his 
seat.  But,  in  a  flash,  the  instinctive,  the  super-instinc- 
tive, the  nothing  less  than  Divine  hand,  was  stretched  out 
to  restore  him  to  his  throne.  As  a  guide  to  conduct  she 
became  his  conscience. 

Work  and  love  and  growing  friendship  filled  his  care- 
free days.  His  novel  was  running  serially  in  a  weekly 
and  attracting  attention.  It  would  be  published  in  book- 
form  early  in  the  New  Year,  and  the  publishers  had  no 
doubt  of  its  success.  All  was  well  with  the  world. 

Meanwhile  they  concerned  themselves  busily,  like 
happy  children,  with  their  projects  of  travel.  It  was  a 
great  step  to  book  berths  for  Bombay  by  a  January  boat. 
They  would  then  cross  India,  visit  Burmah,  the  Straits 
Settlements,  Australia,  Japan,  America.  All  kinds  of 
Companies  provided  steamers;  Providence  would  procure 
the  accommodation.  They  planned  a  detailed  six  months' 
itinerary  which  would  take  a  conscientious  globe-trotter 
a  couple  of  years  to  execute.  Before  launching  on  this 
eastern  voyage  they  would  wander  at  their  ease  through 
France,  see  Paris  and  Monte  Carlo,  and  pick  up  the 
boat  at  Marseilles.  As  the  year  drew  to  its  close  their 
excitement  waxed  more  unrestrained.  They  babbled 
to  their  envious  friends  of  the  wonder-journey  before 
them. 

Blaise  Olifant,  who,  on  his  periodical  visits  to  London, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  205 

was  a  welcome  visitor  at  their  flat,  was  entertained  with 
these  anticipations  of  travel.  He  listened  with  the  air 
of  elderly  indulgence  that  had  been  his  habit  since  their 
marriage. 

"Don't  you  wish  you  were  coming  with  us?"  asked 
Olivia. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Don't  you  remember  the  first 
time  I  saw  you  I  said  I  was  done  with  adventures?" 

"And  I  said  I  was  going  in  search  of  them." 

"So  you're  each  getting  your  heart's  desire,"  said 
Triona. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  Olifant,  with  a  smile. 

There  was  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it  which  did  not  escape 
Olivia's  shrewd  glance.  He  had  grown  thinner  during 
the  year;  his  nose  seemed  half-comically  to  have  grown 
sharper  and  longer.  In  his  eyes  dwelt  a  shadow  of  wist- 
ful regret. 

"The  life  of  a  hermit  cabbage  isn't  good  for  you,"  she 
said.  "Give  it  up  and  come  with  us." 

Again  he  shook  his  head.  No.  They  did  not  want 
such  a  drag  on  the  wheels  of  their  joyous  chariot.  Be- 
sides, he  was  tied  to  Medlow  as  long  as  she  graciously 
allowed  him  to  live  there.  His  sister  had  definitely  left 
her  dissolute  husband  and  was  living  under  his  protection. 

"You  should  be  living  under  the  protection  of  a  wife," 
Olivia  declared.  "I've  told  you  so  often,  haven't  I?" 

"And  I've  always  answered  that  bachelors  are  born, 
not  made — and  I'm  one  born." 

"Predestination!  Rubbish!"  cried  Triona,  rising  with 
a  laugh.  "Your  Calvanistic  atavism  is  running  away 
with  you.  It's  time  for  your  national  antidote.  I'll 
bring  it  in." 


206  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  in  his  boyish  way,  in  search 
of  whisky.  Olivia  leaned  forward  in  her  chair. 

"You  may  not  know  it,  but  from  that  first  day  a  year 
ago  you  made  yourself  a  dear  friend — so  you'll  forgive 

me  if  I "  She  paused  for  a  second,  and  went  on 

abruptly:  "You've  changed.  Now  and  then  you  look 
so  unhappy.  I  wish  I  could  help  you." 

He  laughed.  "It's  very  dear  of  you  to  think  of  me, 
Lady  Olivia — but  the  change  is  not  in  me.  I've  re- 
mained the  same.  It's  your  eyes  that  have  grown  so 
accustomed  to  the  radiant  gladness  of  a  happy  man  that 
they  expect  the  same  in  any  old  fossil  on  the  beach." 

"Now  you  make  me  feel  utterly  selfish,"  she  cried. 

"How?" 

"We  oughtn't  to  look  so  absurdly  happy.  It's  in- 
decent." 

"But  it  does  one  good,"  said  he. 

Triona  entered  with  the  tray,  and  administered  whisky 
and  soda  to  his  guest. 

"There!  When  you've  drunk  it  you'll  be  ready  to 
come  to  the  Magical  Isles  with  us,  where  the  Lady  of 
Ladies  awaits  you  in  an  enchanted  valley,  with  hybiscus 
in  her  hair." 

The  talk  grew  light,  drifted  inevitably  into  the  details 
of  their  projected  wanderings.  The  evening  ended  pleas- 
antly. Olivia  bade  Olifant  farewell,  promising,  as  he 
would  not  go  in  search  of  her  himself,  to  bring  him  back 
the  perfect  lady  of  the  hybiscus  crown.  Triona  accom- 
panied him  to  the  landing;  and,  while  they  stood  awaiting 
the  lift,  Olifant  said  casually: 

"I  suppose  you've  got  your  passports?" 

"Passports?"    The  young  man  knitted  his  brow  in 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  207 

some  surprise.  "Why,  of  course.  That's  to  say,  I've  not 
bothered  about  them  yet,  but  they'll  be  all  right.  Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"You're  Russian  subjects.  There  may  be  difficulties. 
If  there  are,  I  know  a  man  in  the  Foreign  Office  who  may 
be  of  help." 

The  lift  rose  and  the  gates  clashed  open,  and  the 
attendant  came  out. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  said  Triona.  "It's  awfully 
good  of  you." 

They  shook  hands,  wished  each  other  God-speed,  and 
the  cage  went  down,  leaving  Triona  alone  on  the  land- 
ing, gaping  across  the  well  of  the  lift. 

He  was  aroused  from  a  semi-stupor  by  Olivia's  voice 
at  the  flat  door. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing,  darling?" 

He  realized  that  he  must  have  been  there  some  appre- 
ciable time.  He  turned  with  a  laugh. 

"I  was  interested  in  the  mechanism  of  the  lift;  it  has 
so  many  possibilities  in  fiction." 

She  laughed.  "Think  of  them  to-morrow.  It's  time 
for  good  little  novelists  to  go  to  bed." 

But  that  night,  while  Olivia,  blissfully  unconscious  of 
trouble,  slept  the  happy  sleep  of  innocence  Alexis  Triona 
did  not  close  an  eye. 

Passports!  He  had  not  given  them  a  thought.  Any 
decent  person  was  entitled  to  a  passport.  In  the  plen- 
itude of  his  English  content  he  had  forgotten  his  fictitious 
Russian  citizenship.  To  attest  or  even  to  support  this 
claim  there  was  no  creature  on  God's  earth.  The  details 
of  his  story  of  the  torpedoed  Swedish  timber  boat  in 
which  he  had  taken  refuge  would  not  bear  official  exam- 


208  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

ination.  Application  for  passport  under  the  name  of 
Alexis  Triona,  soi-disant  Russian  subject,  would  involve 
an  investigation  leading  to  inevitable  exposure.  His  civic 
status  was  that  of  John  Briggs,  late  naval  rating.  He 
had  all  his  papers  jealously  locked  up,  together  with  the 
little  black  notebook,  in  his  despatch  case.  As  John 
Briggs,  British  subject,  he  was  freeman  of  the  civilized 
world.  But  John  Briggs  was  dead  and  done  for.  It  was 
impossible  to  wander  over  the  globe  as  Alexis  Triona  with 
a  passport  bearing  the  name  of  John  Briggs.  He  would 
be  held  up  and  turned  back  at  any  frontier.  And  it  was 
beyond  his  power  of  deception  to  induce  Olivia  to  travel 
with  him  round  the  world  under  the  incognito  of  Mrs. 
John  Briggs. 

Rigid,  so  that  he  should  not  wake  the  beloved  woman, 
he  stared  for  hours  and  hours  into  the  darkness,  vainly 
seeking  a  solution.  And  there  was  none. 

He  might  blind  Olivia  into  the  postponement  of  their 
adventure,  and  in  the  meanwhile  change  his  name  by 
deed  poll.  But  that  would  involve  the  statutory  pub- 
licity in  the  Press.  The  declaration  in  The  Times  that 
he,  John  Briggs,  would  henceforth  take  the  name  of 
Alexis  Triona  would  stultify  him  in  the  social  and  liter- 
ary world — and  damn  him  in  the  eyes  of  Olivia. 

In  those  early  days  after  the  War,  the  Foreign  Office 
granted  passports  grudgingly.  British  subjects  had  to 
show  very  adequate  reasons  for  desiring  to  go  abroad, 
and  foreign  visas  were  not  over-readily  given.  In  the 
process  of  obtaining  a  passport,  a  man's  identity  had  to 
be  established  beyond  question. 

He  remembered  now  having  heard  vague  talk  of  spies; 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  209 

but  he  had  paid  no  attention  to  it.  Now  he  realized  that 
which  he  had  heard  was  cruelly  definite. 

There  was  no  solution.  John  Briggs  was  dead,  and 
Alexis  Triona  had  no  official  existence. 

He  could  not  get  as  far  as  Boulogne,  let  alone  Japan. 
And  there  was  Olivia  by  his  side  dreaming  of  the  For- 
tunate Isles. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BUT  for  Olivia's  unquestioning  faith  in  him  he 
would  not  have  pulled  through  this  passport 
quagmire.  At  every  fresh  lie  he  dreaded  lest 
her  credulity  should  reach  the  breaking  point.  For  he 
had  to  lie  once  more — and  this  time  with  revulsion  and 
despair. 

He  began  the  abominable  campaign  the  next  evening 
after  dinner.  He  had  been  absent  all  day,  on  the  vague 
plea  of  business.  In  reality  he  had  walked  through 
London  and  wandered  about  the  docks,  Ratcliffe  High- 
way, the  Isle  of  Dogs.  He  had  returned  physically  and 
spiritually  worn  out.  Her  solicitude  smote  him.  It  was 
nothing.  A  little  worry  which  the  sight  of  her  would 
dispel.  They  dined  and  went  into  the  drawing-room. 
She  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"And  now  the  worry,  poor  boy.     Anything  I  can  do?" 

He  stared  into  the  fire.    "It's  our  trip." 

"Why,  what  has  gone  wrong?" 

"Everything,"  he  groaned. 

"But,  darling!"  She  gripped  his  shoulder.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  a  beautiful  dream,  my  dear.  We  must 
call  it  off." 

She  uttered  a  breathless  "Why?" 

"It's  far  beyond  our  means." 

She  broke  into  her  gay  laugh  and  hugged  him  and 
called  him  a  silly  fellow.  Hadn't  they  settled  all  that 

210 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  211 

side  of  it  long  ago?  Her  fingers  were  itching  to  draw 
cheques.  She  had  scarcely  put  pen  to  pink  paper  since 
their  marriage.  Hadn't  he  insisted  on  supporting  her?" 

"And  I'll  go  on  insisting,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  the  man 

to  live  on  my  wife's  money.  No,  no "  with  uplifted 

hand  he  checked  her  generous  outburst.  "I  know  what 
you're  going  to  say,  sweetheart,  but  it  can't  be  done.  I 
was  willing  for  you  to  advance  a  certain  amount.  But 
I  would  have  paid  it  back — well,  I  would  have  accepted 
it  if  it  gave  you  pleasure.  Anyhow,  things  are  different 
now.  Suddenly  different." 

He  writhed  under  the  half-truths,  the  half-sincerities 
he  was  speaking.  In  marrying  her  his  conscience  ab- 
solved him  of  fortune  seeking.  It  had  been  the  pride  of 
his  Northumbrian  blood  to  maintain  his  wife  as  she 
should  be  maintained,  out  of  his  earnings — this  draft  on 
her  fortune  for  the  jaunt  he  had  made  up  a  Tyneside 
mind  to  repay.  Given  the  passport,  the  whole  thing  was 
as  simple  as  signing  a  cheque.  But  no  passports  to  be 
given,  he  had  to  lie.  How  else,  in  God's  name,  to  ex- 
plain? 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  her  natural  ques- 
tion, "there's  one  thing  about  myself  I've  not  told  you. 
It  has  seemed  quite  unimportant.  In  fact,  I  had  prac- 
tically forgotten  it.  But  this  is  the  story.  During  my 
last  flight  through  Russia  a  friend,  one  of  the  old  Russian 
nobility,  gave  me  shelter.  He  was  in  hiding,  dressed  as 
a  peasant.  His  wife  and  children  had  escaped  the  Rev- 
olution and  were,  he  was  assured,  in  England.  He  en- 
trusted me  with  a  thousand  pounds  in  English  bank-notes 
which  he  had  hidden  in  a  scapulary  hanging  round  his 
neck,  and  which  I  was  to  give  to  his  family  on  my  arrival. 


212  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

I  followed  his  example  and  hung  the  few  paper  roubles 
I  had  left,  together  with  his  money,  round  my  neck.  As 
you  know,  I  was  torpedoed.  I  was  hauled  out  of  the 
water  in  shirt  and  drawers,  and  landed  penniless.  The 
string  of  the  scapulary  had  broken,  and  all  the  money 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  North  Sea.  I  went  to  every 
conceivable  Russian  agency  in  London  to  get  information 
about  the  Vronsky  family.  There  was  no  trace  of  them. 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  they  had  never  landed 
in  England,  and  to-day  I  found  I  was  right.  They 
hadn't.  They  had  disappeared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth." 

"To-day?"  queried  Olivia. 

"This  morning.  I  had  a  letter  from  Vronsky  for- 
warded by  the  publishers." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  cried  Olivia.  "I  had  an 
idea  you  weren't  quite  yourself." 

"I  didn't  want  to  worry  you  without  due  reason,"  he 
explained,  "and  I  was  upset.  It  was  like  a  message  from 
the  dead.  For,  not  having  heard  of  him  all  this  time,  I 
concluded  he  had  perished,  like  so  many  others,  at  the 
hands  of  the  Bolsheviks.  Anyhow,  there  he  was  alive  in 
a  little  hotel  in  Bloomsbury.  Of  course,  I  had  to  go  and 
rout  him  out." 

"Naturally,"  said  Olivia. 

"Well,  I  found  him.  He  had  managed  to  escape,  with 
the  usual  difficulties,  and  was  now  about  to  search  Europe 
for  his  family." 

"What  a  terrible  quest,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  shudder. 

"Yes.  It's  awful,  isn't  it?"  replied  Triona  in  a  voice 
of  deep  feeling — already  half  beginning  himself  to  be- 
lieve in  the  genuineness  of  his  story — "I  spent  a  heart- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  213 

rending  day  with  him.    He  had  expected  to  find  his 
family  in  England." 

"But  you  wrote  to  him " 

"Of  course.  But  how  many  letters  to  Russia  reach 
their  destination?  Their  letters,  too,  have  miscarried  or 
been  seized.  He  hadn't  had  news  of  them  since  they  left 
Petrograd." 

Carried  away  by  the  tragedy  of  this  Wandering  Jew 
hunt  for  a  lost  family,  Olivia  forgot  the  reason  for  its 
recital.  She  questioned,  Triona  responded,  his  pictur- 
esque invention  in  excited  working.  He  etched  in  details. 
Vronsky's  declension  from  the  ruddy,  plethoric  gentle- 
man, with  good-humoured  Tartar  face,  to  the  gaunt,  hol- 
low eyed  grey-beard,  with  skinny  fingers  on  which  the 
nails  grew  long.  The  gentle  charm  of  the  lost  Madame 
Vronsky  and  the  beauty  of  her  two  young  daughters, 
Vera  and  Sonia.  The  faithful  moujik  who  had  accom- 
panied them  on  their  way  and  reported  that  they  had 
sailed  on  the  Olger  Danske  from  Copenhagen  for  Lon- 
don. He  related  their  visit  to  Lloyds,  where  they  had 
learned  that  no  such  ship  was  known.  Certainly  at  the 
time  of  the  supposed  voyage  it  had  put  into  no  British 
port.  Vronsky  was  half  mad.  No  wonder. 

"Why  did  you  leave  him?  Why  didn't  you  bring  him 
here?"  asked  Olivia,  her  eyes  all  pity  and  her  lips  parted. 

"I  asked  him.  He  wouldn't  come.  He  must  begin  his 
search  at  once — take  ship  for  Denmark.  .  .  .  Mean- 
while, dearest,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "being  practically 
without  resources,  he  referred  to  his  thousand  pounds. 
That's  where  you  and  I  come  in.  He  entrusted  me  with 
the  money  and  the  accident  of  losing  it  could  not  relieve 
me  of  the  responsibility — could  it?" 


214  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He  glanced  a  challenge.  Her  uprightness  waved  it 
aside. 

"Good  heavens,  no!" 

"Well,  I  took  him  to  my  bank  and  gave  him  the  thou- 
sand pounds  in  Bank  of  England  notes.  So,  my  dear, 
we're  all  that  to  the  bad  on  our  balance  sheet.  We're 
nearly  broke — and  we'll  have  to  put  off  our  trip  round 
the  world  to  more  prosperous  tunes." 

Although,  womanlike,  she  tried  at  first  to  kick  against 
the  pricks,  parading  the  foolish  fortune  lying  idle  at  the 
bank,  that  was  the  end  of  the  romantic  project.  Her 
common  sense  asserted  itself.  A  thousand  pounds,  for 
folks  in  their  position,  was  a  vast  sum  of  money.  She 
resigned  herself  with  laughing  grace  to  the  inevitable,  and 
poured  on  her  husband  all  the  consolation  for  disappoint- 
ment that  her  heart  could  devise.  Their  pleasant  life 
went  on.  Deeply  interested  in  Vronsky,  she  questioned 
him  from  time  to  time.  Had  he  no  news  of  the  tragic 
wanderer?  At  last,  in  February,  he  succumbed  to  the 
temptation  to  finish  for  ever  with  these  Frankenstein 
monsters.  He  came  home  one  afternoon,  and  after  kiss- 
ing her  said  with  a  gay  air: 

"I  found  a  letter  at  Decies  Street" — the  house  of  his 
publishers — "from  whom  do  you  think?  From  Vron- 
sky. Just  a  few  lines.  He  tracked  his  family  to  Pa- 
lermo and  they're  all  as  happy  as  can  be.  How  he  did  it 
he  doesn't  say,  which  is  disconcerting,  for  one  would  like 
to  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  his  journeyings.  But  there's 
the  fact,  and  now  we  can  wipe  Vronsky  off  our  slate." 

In  March  the  novel  appeared.  Reviewers  lauded  it 
enthusiastically  as  a  new  note  in  fiction. 

The  freshness  of  subject,  outlook,  and  treatment  ap- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  215 

pealed  to  the  vastly  superior  youth,  the  disappointed  old, 
and  the  scholarly  and  conscientious  few,  who  write  liter- 
ary criticism.  The  great  firm  of  publishers  smiled  ur- 
banely. Repeat  orders  on  a  gratifying  scale  poured  in 
every  day.  Triona  took  Olivia  to  Decies  Street  to  hear 
from  publishing  lips  the  splendid  story.  They  went 
home  in  a  taxi-cab,  their  arms  around  each  other,  intoxi- 
cated with  the  pride  of  success  and  the  certainty  of  their 
love.  And  the  next  day  Olivia  said: 

"If  we  can't  go  round  the  world,  at  any  rate  let  us  have 
a  holiday.  Let  us  go  to  Paris.  We  can  afford  it." 

And  Triona,  who  for  months  had  foreseen  such  a  rea- 
sonable proposal,  replied: 

"I  wish  we  could.  I've  been  dreaming  of  it  for  a  long 
time.  In  fact — I  didn't  tell  you — but  I  went  to  the 
Foreign  Office  a  fortnight  ago." 

She  wrinkled  her  brow. 

"What's  the  Foreign  Office  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"They  happen  to  regard  me  as  an  exceptional  man, 
my  dearest,"  said  he.  "I'm  still  in  the  Secret  Service. 
I  tried  last  summer  to  get  out  of  it — but  they  overper- 
suaded  me,  promising  not  to  worry  me  unduly.  One  can't 
refuse  to  serve  one's  country  at  a  pinch,  can  one?" 
No.  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

She  felt  hurt  at  being  left  out  in  the  cold.  She  also 
had  a  sudden  fear  of  the  elusiveness  of  this  husband  of 
hers,  hero  of  so  many  strange  adventures  and  interests 
that  years  would  not  suffice  for  their  complete  revelation. 
She  remembered  the  dug-up  Vronsky  romance,  in  itself 
one  that  might  supply  the  ordinary  human  being  with 
picturesque  talk  for  a  lifetime.  And  now  she  resented 
this  continued  association  with  the  Foreign  Office  which 


216  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

he  thought  he  had  severed  on  his  return  from  Finland. 

"I  never  imagined  they  would  want  me  again,  after 
what  I  told  them.  But  it  seems  they  do.  You  know 
the  state  of  things  in  Russia.  Well — they  may  send  me 
or  they  may  not.  At  any  rate,  for  the  next  few  months 
I  am  not  to  leave  the  country." 

"I  call  that  idiotic,"  cried  Olivia  indignantly.  "They 
could  get  at  you  in  Paris  just  as  easily  as  they  could  in 
London." 

"They've  got  the  whip  hand,  confound  them,"  replied 
Triona.  "They  grant  or  refuse  passports." 

"The  Foreign  Office  is  a  beast!"  said  Olivia.  "I'd  like 
to  tell  them  what  I  think  of  them." 

"Do,"  said  he  with  a  laugh,  "but  don't  tell  anybody 
else." 

She  believed  him.  He  breathed  again.  The  difficulty 
was  over  for  the  present.  Meanwhile  he  called  himself 
a  fool  for  not  having  given  her  this  simple  explanation 
months  ago.  Why  had  he  racked  his  conscience  with 
the  outrageous  fiction  of  the  Vronskys? 

About  this  time,  too,  in  her  innocence,  she  raised  the 
question  of  his  technical  nationality.  It  was  absurd  for 
him  to  continue  to  be  a  Russian  subject.  A  son  of 
English  parents,  surely  he  could  easily  be  naturalized. 
He  groaned  inwardly  at  this  fresh  complication,  and 
cursed  the  name  of  Triona.  He  put  her  off  with  vague  in- 
tentions. One  of  these  days  .  .  .  there  was  no  great 
hurry.  She  persisted. 

"It's  so  unlike  you,"  she  declared,  uncomprehending. 
"You  who  do  things  so  swiftly  and  vividly." 

"I  must  have  some  sort  of  papers  establishing  my 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  217 

identity/'  he  explained.  "My  word  won't  do.  We  must 
wait  till  there's  a  settled  government  in  Russia  to  which 
I  can  apply.  I  know  it's  an  unsatisfactory  position  for 
both;  but  it  can't  be  helped."  He  smiled  wearily.  "You 
mustn't  reproach  me." 

"Reproach  you — my  dearest ?" 

The  idea  shocked  her.  She  only  had  grown  impatient 
of  the  intangible  Russian  influences  that  checked  his 
freedom  of  action.  Sometimes  she  dreaded  them,  not 
knowing  how  deep  or  how  sinister  they  might  be.  Secret 
agents  were  sometimes  mysteriously  assassinated.  He 
laughed  at  her  fears.  But  what  else,  she  asked  herself, 
could  he  do  but  laugh?  She  was  not  reassured. 

The  naturalization  question  settled  for  an  indefinite 
time,  he  felt  once  more  in  clear  water.  Easter  came 
and  went. 

"If  I  don't  move  about  a  little,  I  shall  die,"  he  said. 

"Let  us  move  about  a  lot,"  said  Olivia.  "Let  us  hire 
a  car  and  race  about  Great  Britain." 

He  waxed  instantly  enthusiastic.  She  was  splendid. 
Always  the  audacious  one.  A  car — a  little  high-pow- 
ered two-seater.  Just  they  two  together.  Free  of  the 
high  road!  If  they  could  find  no  lodgings  at  inns  they 
could  sleep  beneath  the  hedges.  They  would  drive  any- 
where, losing  their  way,  hitting  on  towns  with  delicious 
unexpectancy.  The  maddest  motor  tour  that  was  ever 
unplanned. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  new  idea,  the  disappointment 
over  the  prohibited  foreign  travel  vanished  from  their 
hearts.  Once  more  they  contemplated  their  vagabond- 
age, with  the  single-mindedness  of  children. 


218  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"We'll  start  to-morrow,"  he  declared. 

"To-morrow  evening  is  the  Rowingtons'  dinner-party," 
Olivia  reminded  him. 

He  confounded  Rowington  and  his  dinner-party.  Why 
not  send  a  telegram  saying  he  was  down  with  smallpox? 
He  hated  literary  dinner-parties.  Why  should  he  make 
an  ass  of  himself  in  a  lion's  skin — just  to  gratify  the 
vanity  of  a  publisher?  Olivia  administered  the  required 
corrective. 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  case  of  the  lion  putting  on  an  ass's 
skin,  my  dear?  Of  course  we  must  go." 

He  laughed.  "I  suppose  we  must.  Anyway,  we'll 
start  the  day  after.  I'll  see  about  the  car  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

He  went  out  immediately  after  breakfast,  and  in  a 
couple  of  hours  returned  radiant.  He  was  in  luck,  hav- 
ing found  the  high-powered  two-seater  of  his  dreams, 
He  overwhelmed  her  with  enthusiastic  technicalities. 

"You  beloved  infant,"  said  Olivia. 

But  before  they  could  set  out  in  this  chariot  of  force 
and  speed,  something  happened.  It  happened  at  the 
dinner-party  given  by  Rowington,  the  active  partner 
in  the  great  publishing  house,  in  honour  of  their  twice- 
proved  successful  author. 

The  Rowingtons  lived  in  a  mansion  at  the  southern  end 
of  Portland  Place.  It  had  belonged  to  his  father  and 
grandfather  before  him  and  the  house  was  filled  with 
inherited  and  acquired  treasures.  On  entering,  Triona 
had  the  same  sense  of  luxurious  comfort  as  on  that  far- 
off  day  of  the  first  interview  in  Decies  Street,  when  his 
advancing  foot  stepped  so  softly  on  the  thick  Turkey 
carpet.  A  manservant  relieved  him  of  his  coat  and  hat, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  219 

a  maid  took  Olivia  for  an  instant  into  a  side-room  whence 
she  reappeared  bare-necked,  bare-armed,  garbed,  as  her 
husband  whispered,  in  cobweb  swept  from  Heaven's  raft- 
ers. A  manservant  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  announced 
them.  Mrs.  Rowington,  thin,  angular,  pince-nez'd,  and 
Rowington,  middle-aged,  regarding  the  world  benevolently 
through  gold  spectacles,  received  them  and  made  the 
necessary  introduction  to  those  already  present.  There 
was  a  judge  of  the  High  Court,  a  well-known  novelist,  a 
beautiful  and  gracious  woman  whom  Olivia,  with  a  little 
catch  of  the  heart,  recognized  as  the  Lady  Aintree  who 
had  addressed  a  passing  word  of  apology  to  her  in  the 
outgoing  theatre  crush  in  the  first  week  of  her  emanci- 
pation. She  envied  Alexis  who  stood  in  talk  with  her. 
She  herself  was  trying  to  correlate  the  young  and  modern 
bishop,  in  plum-coloured  evening  dress,  with  the  billow 
of  lawn  semi-humanized  by  a  gaunt  staring  head  and  a 
pair  of  waxen  hands  which  had  gone  through  the  dimly 
comprehended  ritual  of  her  confirmation. 

He  explained  his  presence  in  this  brilliant  assembly  on 
the  ground  that  once  he  had  written  an  obscure  book  of 
travels  in  Asia  Minor.  St.  Paul's  steps  retraced.  He  had 
fought  with  beasts  at  Ephesus — but  not  of  the  kind  to 
which  the  apostle  was  presumed  to  refer;  disgusting  little 
beasts!  He  also  swore  "By  Jove!"  which  she  was  sure 
her  confirming  bishop  would  never  have  done. 

A  while  later,  as  the  room  was  filling  up,  she  found 
herself  talking  to  a  Colonel  Onslow,  an  authority  on  Kur- 
distan, said  her  hostess,  who  was  anxious  to  meet  her  hus- 
band. She  glanced  around,  her  instinctive  habit,  to 
place  Alexis.  He  had  been  torn  from  Lady  Aintree  and 
was  standing  just  behind  her  by  the  chimneypiece  in 


220  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

conversation  with  a  couple  of  men.  His  eyes  caught 
the  message  of  love  in  hers  and  telegraphed  back  again. 

He  no  longer  confounded  Rowington.  The  central 
figure  of  this  distinguished  gathering,  he  glowed  with  the 
divine  fire  of  success.  He  was  talking  to  two  elderly 
men  on  Russian  folk  literature.  On  that  he  was  an  au- 
thority. He  knew  the  inner  poignancy  of  every  song, 
the  bitter  humour  of  every  tale.  Speaking  sober  truth 
about  Russia  he  forgot  that  he  had  ever  lied. 

Suddenly  into  the  little  open  space  about  the  hearth 
emerged  from  the  throng,  a  brisk,  wiry  man  with  a  keen, 
clean-shaven,  weather-beaten  face,  who,  on  catching  sight 
of  Triona,  paused  for  a  startled  second  and  then  darted 
up  to  him  with  outstretched  hand;  and  Triona,  taken  off 
his  guard,  made  an  eager  step  to  meet  him. 

If,  for  two  days,  you  have  faced  death  alone  with  a  man 
who  has  given  every  proof  of  indomitable  courage  and 
cheerfulness,  your  heart  has  an  abominable  way  of  leap- 
ing when  suddenly,  years  afterwards,  you  are  brought  with 
him  face  to  face. 

"You  are  Briggs!  I  knew  I  was  right.  Fancy  run- 
ning up  against  you  here!" 

Triona 's  cheeks  burned  hot.  The  buried  name  seemed 
to  be  shrieked  to  the  listening  universe.  At  any  rate, 
Olivia  heard;  and  instinctively  she  drifted  from  the  side 
of  Colonel  Onslow  towards  Alexis. 

"It's  a  far  cry  from  Russia,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  and  a  far  cry  from  the  lower  deck  of  an  armoured 
car,"  laughed  the  other.  "Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
God  knows  what  has  happened  to  the  rest  of  us.  I've 
been  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  Got  a  ship  soon  after- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  221 

wards.  Retired  now.  Farming.  Living  on  three  pigs 
and  a  bee.  And  you" — he  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder 
— "you  look  flourishing.  I  used  to  have  an  idea  there 
was  something  behind  you." 

It  was  then  that  Triona  became  conscious  of  Olivia  at 
his  elbow.  He  put  on  a  bold  face  and  laughed  in  his 
careless  way. 

"I  have  my  wife  behind  me.  My  dear — this  is  Captain 
Wedderburn.  We  met  in  Russia." 

"We  did  more  than  meet,  by  George!"  cried  Wedder- 
burn breezily.  "We  were  months  together  in  the 
Column " 

"What  Column?"  asked  Olivia,  puzzled. 

"The  Armoured  Car  Column.  I  forget  what  the  hu- 
mour of  war  rated  him  as.  Able  Seaman,  I  think.  I  was 
Lieutenant  then.  It  was  a  picnic,  I  assure  you.  And 
there  were  the  days — he  and  I  alone  together — I'll  never 
forget  'em — we  got  cut  off — but  he  has  told  you  all  about 
it." 

"No." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Briggs " 

"Pardon  me,"  Alexis  interrupted  hastily.  "But  that's 
not  my  name.  It  was  literally  a  nom  de  guerre.  My  real 
name  is  Triona." 

"Eh?"  Wedderburn  put  his  hands  on  his  narrow  hips 
and  stared  at  him.  "The  famous  chap  I  was  asked  to 
meet  to-night?  Mrs.  Triona,  your  husband  is  a  wonder- 
ful fellow.  The  months  that  were  the  most  exciting  time 
in  my  life,  anyhow,  he  hasn't  thought  it  worth  while  men- 
tioning in  his  book.  And  yet" — his  keen  eyes  swept  like 
searchlights  over  the  other's  face — "you  were  knocked 


222  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

out.  I  remember  the  day.  And  you  must  have  been  a 
long  time  in  hospital.  How  the  deuce  did  you  manage 
to  work  everything  in?" 

"I  was  only  scratched,"  said  Triona.  "A  week  or 
two  afterwards  I  was  back  in  the  Russian  service." 

"I  see,"  said  Wedderburn  with  unexpected  frostiness. 

He  turned  to  greet  a  woman  of  his  acquaintance  stand- 
ing near,  and  husband  and  wife  were  left  for  a  few  sec- 
onds alone. 

"You  never  told  me  about  serving  with  the  British 
forces." 

"It  was  just  an  interlude,"  said  he. 

The  hostess  came  up  and  manoeuvred  them  apart. 
Dinner  was  announced.  The  company  swept  downstairs. 
Olivia  sat  between  her  host  and  Colonel  Onslow,  Lady 
Aintree  opposite,  and  next  her,  Captain  Wedderburn. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  married  life  Olivia  suffered 
vague  disquiet  as  to  her  husband's  antecedents.  The 
rugged-faced,  bright-eyed  man  on  the  other  side  of  the 
table  seemed  to  hold  the  key  to  a  phase  of  his  life  which 
she  had  never  heard.  She  wished  that  he  were  seated 
elsewhere,  out  of  sight.  It  was  with  a  conscious  effort 
that  she  brought  herself  to  listen  intelligently  to  her  host 
who  was  describing  his  first  meeting  with  the  now  famous 
Alexis  Triona,  then  valiantly  driving  hireling  motor- 
cars under  the  sobriquet  of  John  Briggs.  She  felt  a  touch 
of  ice  at  her  heart.  For  the  second  time  that  night  she 
had  heard  the  unfamiliar  name.  Alexis  had  told  her,  it 
is  true,  of  his  early  struggles  in  London  while  writing 
Through  Blood  and  Snow,  but  of  John  Briggs  he  had 
breathed  no  word. 

The  talk  drifted  into  other  channels  until  she  turned  to 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  223 

her  neighbour,  Colonel  Onslow,  who  after  a  while  said 
pleasantly: 

"I'm  looking  for  an  opportunity  of  a  chat  with  your 
husband,  Mrs.  Triona.  From  his  book,  he  seems  to  have 
covered  a  great  deal  of  my  ground — and  it  must  have  been 
about  the  same  time.  It's  strange  I  never  came  across 
him." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied.  "His  Secret  Service 
work  rather  depended  on  his  avoidance  of  other  Euro- 
pean agents." 

Colonel  Onslow  yielded  laughingly  to  the  argument. 
Of  course,  that  was  quite  understandable.  Every  man 
had  his  own  methods.  No  game  in  the  world  had  more 
elastic  rules. 

"On  the  other  hand,  I  knew  a  Russian  on  exactly  the 
same  lay  as  your  husband,  a  fellow  Krilov,  a  fine  chap — 
I  ran  into  him  several  times — who  was  rather  keen  on 
taking  me  into  his  confidence.  And  one  or  two  of  the 
things  he  told  me  were  so  identical  with  your  husband's 
experiences,  that  it  seems  they  must  have  hunted  in 
couples." 

"Oh,  no,  he  was  on  his  own,  I  assure  you,"  said  Olivia. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  keen  to  meet  him,"  said  Onslow,  un- 
aware of  the  growing  fear  behind  the  girl's  dark  eyes.  "I 
only  came  home  a  month  ago.  Somebody  gave  me  the 
book.  When  I  read  it  I  went  to  my  friend  Rowington 
and  asked  about  Alexis  Triona.  That's  how  I'm  here." 

Presently,  noticing  her  air  of  constraint,  he  said  apolo- 
getically, "You  must  be  fed  up  with  all  this  ancient  his- 
tory. A  wanderer  like  myself  is  apt  to  forget  that  the 
world  is  supposed  to  be  at  peace  and  is  even  rather  bored 
with  making  good  the  damage  of  war." 


224  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Olivia  answered  as  well  as  she  could,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  interminable  meal  strove  to  exhibit  her  usual  gay 
interest  in  the  talk  around. 

But  her  heart  was  heavy  with  she  knew  not  what  fore- 
bodings. She  could  not  see  Alexis,  who  was  seated  on  the 
same  side  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  table.  She 
felt  as  though  the  benevolent  gold-spectacled  man  had 
deliberately  convened  an  assembly  of  Alexis's  enemies. 
It  was  a  blessed  relief  when  the  ladies  rose  and  left  the 
men;  but  in  the  drawing-room,  although  she  was  talking 
to  Lady  Aintree,  most  winningly  gracious  of  women,  her 
glance  continuously  sought  the  door  by  which  the  men 
would  enter.  And  when  they  came  in  his  glance,  for 
the  first  time  in  their  married  life,  did  not  seek  or  meet 
hers.  She  scanned  his  face  anxiously.  It  was  pale  and 
drawn,  she  thought,  and  into  his  eyes  had  crept  the  furtive 
look  of  a  year  ago  which  happiness,  she  thought,  had  dis- 
pelled for  ever.  He  did  not  come  near  her;  nor  did 
Wedderburn  and  Onslow;  nor  did  the  two  latter  talk  to 
him;  he  was  swallowed  up  in  a  little  group  at  the  further 
end  of  the  room.  Meanwhile,  the  most  up-to-date  thing 
in  bishops  sank  smilingly  into  a  chair  by  her  side,  and 
ridden  by  some  ironical  Imp  of  the  Inapposite  described 
to  her  a  visit,  in  the  years  past,  to  the  Castle  of  Schwobbe 
in  Hanover,  where  dwelt  the  Baron  von  Munchausen,  the 
lineal  descendant  of  the  famous  liar.  A  mythical  per- 
sonage? Not  a  bit.  Munchausen  was  one  of  Frederick 
the  Great's  generals.  He  had  seen  his  full-length  por- 
trait in  the  Rittersaal  of  the  old  Schloss.  Thence  he  be- 
gan to  discourse  on  the  great  liars  of  travel.  Herodotus, 
who  was  coming  more  and  more  into  his  own  as  a  faith- 
ful historian;  John  Mandeville;  Fernando  Mendez  Pinto, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  225 

a  name  now  lorgotten,  but  for  a  couple  of  centuries  a  by- 
word of  mendacity;  Gemelli  Carreri,  the  bed-ridden  Nea- 
politan author  of  a  Voyage  Round  the  World;  the  Rabbi 
Benjamin  of  Tudela  who  claimed  to  have  ridden  a 
hippogriff  to  the  tomb  of  Ezekiel;  George  Psalmanazar, 
who  captivated  all  London  (including  so  level-headed  a 
man  as  Samuel  Johnson)  with  his  history  of  the  Island 
of  Formosa  and  his  grammar  of  the  Formosan  language; 
de  Rougemont,  the  turtle-riding  impostor  of  recent  years; 
and  the  later  unfortunate  gentleman  whose  claim  to  have 
discovered  the  North  Pole  was  so  shockingly  discredited. 
The  bishop  seemed  to  have  made  a  hobby  of  these  per- 
verters  of  truth  and  to  look  on  them  (as  in  theological 
duty  bound),  wriggling  through  the  lake  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone, in  the  light  of  Izaak  Walton's  counsel  concerning 
the  worms  threaded  on  the  hook,  as  if  he  loved  them. 
Then  there  were  the  notorious  Blank  and  Dash  and  Dot, 
still  living.  Types,  said  he,  of  the  defective  criminal 
mind,  by  mere  chance  skirting  round  the  commonly  rec- 
ognized area  of  crime. 

Olivia,  with  nerves  on  edge,  welcomed  the  matronly 
swoop  of  Mrs.  Rowington. 

"My  dear  Bishop,  I  want  to  introduce  you " 

He  rose,  made  a  courtly  bow  to  Olivia. 

"I'll  read  your  lordship's  next  book  of  travel  with  great 
interest,"  she  said. 

As  the  home-bound  taxi  drove  off: 

"Thank  goodness  that's  over,"  said  Triona. 

She  echoed  with  a  sigh:     "Yes,  thank  goodness." 

"All  the  bores  of  the  earth." 

"Did  you  have  a  talk  with  Colonel  Onslow?"  she  asked. 


226  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"The  biggest  of  the  lot.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  the  Cau- 
casus," he  added  with  unusual  irritation.  "I  wish  I 
had  never  been  near  it.  I  hate  these  specially  selected 
dinner  parties  of  people  you  don't  want  to  meet  and  will 
never  meet  again."  He  took  her  hand,  which  was  limp 
and  unresponsive.  "Did  }^ou  have  a  rotten  time,  too?" 

"I  wish  we  hadn't  gone,"  she  replied,  withdrawing  her 
hand  under  the  pretext  of  pulling  her  cloak  closer  round 
her  shoulders. 

He  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette  and  smoked  gloomily.  At 
last  he  said  with  some  impatience: 

"Of  course,  I  didn't  mention  the  little  episode  with  the 
British  Force.  It  would  have  been  out  of  the  picture. 
Besides,  nothing  very  much  happened.  It  was  a  stupid 
thing  to  do — I  had  no  right.  That's  why  I  took  an  as- 
sumed name — John  Briggs." 

"And  you  used  it  when  you  landed  in  England.  Mr. 
Rowington  told  me." 

"Of  course,  dear.  Alexis  Triona,  chauffeur,  would  have 
been  absurd,  wouldn't  it?"  He  turned  to  her  with  the 
old  eagerness. 

This  time  it  was  she  who  thrust  out  a  caressing  hand, 
suddenly  feeling  a  guilty  horror  of  the  doubts  that  had 
beset  her. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  everything  about  yourself — • 
the  details  you  think  so  unimportant.  Then  I  wouldn't 
be  so  taken  aback  as  I  was  this  evening,  when  Captain 
Wedderburn  called  me  Mrs.  Briggs." 

"I'll  write  you  a  supplementary  volume,"  said  he,  "and 
it  shall  be  entitled  Through  Love  and  Sunshine." 

The  ring  in  his  voice  consoled  her.  He  drew  her  close 
to  him  and  they  spoke  little  till  they  reached  their  house. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  227 

There,  in  the  dining-room,  he  poured  out  a  stiff  whisky- 
and-soda  and  drank  it  off  at  a  gulp.  She  uttered  a 
startled,  "My  dear!"  at  the  unusual  breach  of  abstemious 
habit. 

"I'm  dog-tired,"  said  he.  "And  I've  things  to  do  be- 
fore I  go  to  bed.  Don't  wait  for  me." 

"What  things?" 

"To-night  has  given  me  an  idea  for  a  story.  I  must 
get  it,  dear,  and  put  it  down;  otherwise — you  know — I 
shan't  sleep." 

She  protested.  His  brain  would  be  fresher  in  the  morn- 
ing. Such  untimely  artistic  accouchment  had,  indeed, 
happened  several  times  before,  and,  unless  given  its  nat- 
ural chances  had  occasioned  a  night  of  unrest;  but  never 
before  had  there  been  this  haggardness  in  his  face  and 
eyes.  Again  the  doubts  assailed  her.  Something  that 
evening  had  occurred  to  throw  him  off  his  balance. 

"If  anything's  worrying  you,  dear,  do  tell  me,"  she 
urged,  her  clasp  on  the  lapels  of  his  dress-coat  and  her 
eyes  searching  his. 

He  took  her  wrists,  kissed  her,  and  laughed,  as  she 
thought,  uneasily.  Worries?  He  hadn't  an  anxiety  in 
the  world.  But  this  idea — it  was  the  germ  of  something 
big.  He  must  tackle  it  then  and  there.  Led,  his  arm 
around  her  body,  to  the  door,  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
convinced. 

"Don't  be  too  long." 

"And  you  go  to  sleep.    You  must  be  tired." 

Left  alone,  Triona  poured  himself  out  another  whisky 
and  soda.  In  one  evening  he  had  suffered  two  shocks,  for 
neither  of  which  his  easy  nature  had  prepared  him.  The 
Wedderburn  incident  he  could  explain  away.  But  from 


228  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

the  blind  alley  into  which  he  was  pinned  by  Colonel  On- 
slow,  there  had  been  but  a  horrible  wriggling  escape.  It 
was  a  matter,  too,  more  spiritual  even  than  material. 
He  felt  as  though  he  had  crawled  through  a  sewer. 

He  went  to  his  desk  by  the  window,  and  from  a  drawer 
took  out  his  despatch  case,  which  he  unlocked  with  the 
key  that  never  left  his  person;  and  from  it  he  drew  the 
little  black  book.  There,  half-erased,  in  pencil  on  the 
reverse  of  the  cover,  was  the  word,  in  Russian  characters, 
"Krilov."  Hitherto  he  had  regarded  this  as  some  unim- 
portant memorandum  of  name  or  place.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the 
diary.  But  now,  it  stared  at  him  accusingly  as  the  signa- 
ture of  the  dead  man  whose  soul,  as  it  were,  he  had 
robbed. 

Krilov.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Onslow  had 
known  him,  that  fine-featured  grizzled-haired  dead  man, 
in  his  vehement  life.  He  had  heard  from  his  lips  the  wild 
adventures  which  he  had  set  down  with  such  official 
phlegm  in  the  little  black  book,  and  which  he,  Alexis 
Triona,  had  credited  to  himself,  and  had  invested  with  the 
wealth  of  his  poet's  imagination.  Of  course,  he  had 
lied,  on  his  basis  of  truth,  to  Colonel  Onslow,  disclaimed 
all  knowledge  of  Krilov.  It  had  been  the  essence  of  the 
old  Russian  regime  that  secret  agents  should  have  no  ac- 
quaintance one  with  another.  It  was  a  common  thing  for 
two  men,  unsuspectingly,  to  be  employed  on  an  identical 
mission.  The  old  Imperial  service  depended  on  this 
system  of  checks.  If  the  missions  were  identical,  the 
various  incidents  were  bound  to  be  similar.  He  had  de- 
fended his  position  with  every  sophistical  argument  his 
alert  brain  could  devise.  He  drew,  as  red  herrings  across 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  229 

the  track,  the  names  of  obscure  chieftains  known  to 
Colonel  Onslow,  whom  he  had  not  mentioned  in  his  book; 
described  them — one  long-nosed,  foxy,  pitted  with  small- 
pox; another  obese  and  oily;  to  Colonel  Onslow's  mind 
irrefutable  evidence  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  coun- 
try. But  as  to  narrated  incidents  he  had  seen  puzzled 
incredulity  behind  the  Colonel's  eyes  and  had  felt  his  semi- 
accusing  coldness  of  manner  when  their  conversation 
came  to  an  end. 

He  replenished  a  dying  fire  and  sat  down  in  an  arm- 
chair, the  despatch  case  by  his  side,  the  book  in  his  hands 
— the  little  shabby  black  book  that  had  been  his  Bible, 
his  mascot,  the  fount  of  all  his  fortunes.  His  fingers  shook 
with  fear  as  he  turned  over  the  familiar  pages.  The  dead 
man  had  come  to  life,  and  terrifyingly  claimed  his  own. 
The  room  was  very  still.  The  creak  of  a  piece  of  furni- 
ture caused  him  to  swing  round  with  a  start,  as  though 
apprehensive  of  Krilov's  ghostly  presence.  He  must 
burn  the  book,  the  material  evidence  of  his  fraud.  But 
the  fire  was  sulky.  He  must  wait  for  the  blaze,  so  that 
there  should  be  no  doubt  of  the  book's  destruction. 
Meanwhile  his  nerves  were  playing  him  insane  tricks. 
His  ordeal  had  shaken  him.  He  sought  the  steadying 
effect  of  another  whisky. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  It  had  been  an  accursed 
evening.  Once  more  he  had  to  lie  to  Olivia,  and  this 
time  she  appeared  to  be  struggling  with  uncertainty. 
There  had  been  an  unprecedented  aloofness  in  her  atti- 
tude. Yes.  He  spoke  the  words  aloud,  van  unpre- 
cedented aloofness,"  at  first  with  strange  unsuccess  and 
then  with  solemn  deliberation;  and  his  voice  sounded 
strange  to  his  ears.  If  she  suspected — but,  no,  she  could 


230  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

not  suspect.  His  head  grew  heavy,  his  thoughts  con- 
fused. The  fire  was  taking  a  devil  of  a  time  to  burn 
up.  Still,  he  was  beginning  to  see  his  way  clearer.  The 
whisky  was  a  wonderful  help  to  accurate  thinking.  What 
an  ass  he  had  been  not  to  recognize  the  fact  before! 
Besides — the  roof  of  his  mouth  was  parched  with  thirst. 

The  diabolical  notebook  had  to  be  destroyed.  But 
first  there  must  be  flame  in  the  grate.  That  little  red 
glow  would  do  the  trick.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
patience. 

"Just  a  matter  of  patience,  old  man,"  said  he. 

A  couple  of  hours  afterwards,  Olivia,  in  nightdress  and 
wrapper,  entered  the  room.  The  fire  had  gone  out  under 
its  too  heavy  load  of  coal.  Before  it  sprawled  Alexis, 
asleep.  On  the  small  table  beside  him  stood  the  whisky 
decanter,  whose  depleted  contents  caused  Olivia  to  start 
with  a  gasp  of  dismay.  His  drunken  sleep  became  ob- 
vious. She  made  an  instinctive  vain  effort  to  arouse 
him.  But  the  first  pang  of  horror  was  lost  in  agonized 
search  for  the  reason  of  this  amazing  debauch.  He,  the 
most  temperate  of  men,  by  choice  practically  a  drinker 
of  water,  to  have  done  this!  Could  the  reason  lie  in 
the  events  of  the  evening  which  had  kept  her  staringly 
awake?  She  cowered  under  the  new  storm  of  doubt. 

On  the  floor  lay  open  a  little  dirty-paged  book  which 
must  have  fallen  from  his  hand.  She  picked  it  up, 
glanced  through  it,  could  make  nothing  of  it,  for  it  was 
all  in  tiny  Russian  script.  The  horrible  relation  be- 
tween this  derelict  book  and  the  almost  emptied  whisky 
decanter  occurred  to  her  oversensitive  brain.  Then  came 
suddenly  the  memory  of  a  stupid  argument  of  months 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  231 

ago  at  The  Point  and  his  justification  of  the  plagiarist. 
Further,  his  putting  of  a  hypothetical  case — the  finding  on 
the  body  of  a  dead  man  a  notebook  with  leaves  of  the 
thinnest  paper.  .  .  .  She  held  in  her  hand  such  a  note- 
book. It  dropped  from  her  nerveless  fingers.  Suddenly 
she  sprang  with  a  low  cry  to  her  husband  and  shook  him 
by  the  shoulders. 

"Alexis.    Alexis.     Wake  up.     For  God's  sake." 

But  the  unaccustomed  drug  of  the  alcohol  held  him  in 
stupor.  She  tried  again,  wildly. 

"Alexis,  wake  up  and  tell  me  what  I  think  isn't  true." 

At  last  she  realized  that  he  would  lie  there  until  the 
effect  of  the  whisky  had  worn  off.  Mechanically,  she 
put  a  cushion  behind  his  head  and  adjusted  his  limbs 
to  a  position  of  comfort.  Mechanically,  too,  she  put  the 
stopper  in  the  decanter  and  replaced  the  siphon  on  the 
silver  tray,  and  with  her  scrap  of  a  handkerchief  tried 
to  remove  the  ring  which  the  wet  siphon  had  made  on  the 
table.  Then  she  looked  hopelessly  round  the  otherwise 
undisturbed  and  beloved  room.  What  could  be  done 
until  Alexis  should  awaken? 

She  would  go  to  bed.  Perhaps  she  might  sleep.  She 
felt  as  though  she  had  been  beaten  from  head  to  foot. 

The  despatch  box  lay  open  on  the  hearthrug,  the  key 
in  the  lock.  Its  secrecy  had  hitherto  been  a  jest  with 
her.  She  had  sworn  it  contained  locks  of  hair  of  Blue- 
beard victims.  He  had  given  out  a  legend  of  Secret 
Service  documents  of  vast  importance.  Now  it  was 
obvious  that,  at  any  rate,  it  was  the  repository  of  the  little 
black  book. 

She  hesitated  on  the  threshold.  Her  instinct  of  order 
forbade  her  to  leave  the  despatch  box  open  and  the  book 


232  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

trailing  about  the  floor.  She  would  lock  the  book  up  in 
it  and  put  the  key  in  one  of  Alexis's  pockets.  But  when, 
having  picked  up  the  small  leather  box  and  carried  it  to 
the  desk,  she  prepared  to  do  this,  a  name  written  on  a 
common  piece  of  paper  half  in  print — an  official  form — 
stared  brutally  at  her.  And  there  were  others  under- 
neath. And  reading  them  she  learned  the  complete  of- 
ficial history  of  John  Briggs,  Able  Seaman,  from  the  time 
of  his  joining  the  Armoured  Column  in  Russia  to  his  dis- 
charge, after  his  mine-sweeper  had  been  torpedoed  in  the 
North  Sea. 

Olivia,  her  dark  hair  falling  about  the  shoulders  of  her 
heliotrope  wrap,  sat  in  her  husband's  writing-chair,  staring 
at  him  with  tragic  eyes  as  he  slept,  his  brown  hair  care- 
lessly sweeping  his  pale  brow,  and  kept  a  ghastly  vigil. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BLAISE  OLIFANT  sat  over  his  work  in  the  room 
which  once,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  the  late 
Mr.  Gale  called  his  study;  but  it  was  a  room 
transformed  to  studious  use.  The  stuffed  trout  and  the 
large  scale-map  of  the  neighbourhood  and  the  country 
auctioneer's  carelessly  bestowed  oddments  had  been  re- 
placed by  cases  of  geological  specimens  and  bookshelves 
filled  with  a  specialist's  library.  The  knee-hole  writing- 
desk,  with  its  cigarette-burned  edge,  had  joined  the  rest 
of  the  old  lares  and  penates  in  honourable  storage,  and 
a  long  refectory-table,  drawn  across  the  window  over- 
looking the  garden,  and  piled  with  papers,  microscopes, 
and  other  apparatus,  reigned  in  its  stead.  Olifant  loved 
the  room's  pleasant  austerity.  It  symbolized  himself, 
his  aims  and  his  life's  limitations.  A  fire  burned  in  the 
grate,  for  it  was  a  cold,  raw  morning,  and,  outside,  miser- 
able rain  defaced  the  April  day. 

He  smoked  a  pipe  as  he  corrected  proofs,  so  absorbed 
in  the  minute  and  half-mechanical  task  that  he  did  not 
hear  the  door  open  and  the  quiet  entrance  of  a  maid. 

"Mr.  Triona,  sir." 

The  words  cut  through  the  silence  so  that  he  started 
and  swung  round  in  his  chair. 

"Mr.  Triona?     Where?" 

"In   the  dining-room." 

"Show  him  in  here." 

The  maid  retired.  Olifant  rose  and  stood  before  the 

233 


234  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

fire  with  a  puzzled  expression  on  his  face.  Triona  in 
Medlow  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning?  Something  seri- 
ous must  have  brought  a  man,  unannounced,  from  Lon- 
don to  Shropshire.  His  thoughts  flew  to  Olivia. 

A  moment  afterwards  the  dishevelled  spectre  of  Triona 
burst  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  His 
coat  was  wet  with  rain,  his  boots  and  trouser  hems 
muddy.  His  eyes  stared  out  of  a  drawn,  unshaven  face. 

"Thank  God  I've  found  you.  During  the  journey  I 
had  a  sickening  dread  lest  you  might  be  away." 

"But  how  did  you  manage  to  get  here  at  this  hour?" 
asked  Olifant,  for  Medlow  is  far  from  London  and  trains 
are  few.  "You  must  have  arrived  last  night.  Why  the 
deuce  didn't  you  come  to  me?" 

"I  got  to  Worcester  by  the  last  train  and  put  up  for  the 
night  and  came  on  first  thing  this  morning,"  replied  Tri- 
ona impatiently. 

"And  you've  walked  from  the  station.  You're  wet 
through.  Let  me  get  you  a  jacket." 

Olifant  moved  to  the  bell,  but  Triona  arrested  him. 

"No — no.  I'm  taking  the  next  train  back  to  London. 
Don't  talk  of  jackets  and  foolery.  I've  left  Olivia." 

Olifant  made  a  stride,  almost  menacing,  towards  him, 
the  instinctive  gesture  of  his  one  arm  curiously  contrast- 
ing with  the  stillness  of  the  pinned  sleeve  of  the  other. 

"What?" 

"What  I  say,"  cried  Triona.  "I've  left  Olivia.  I've 
left  her  for  ever.  I'm  cutting  myself  out  of  her  life." 

"You're  mad.    Olivia " 

Triona  put  up  a  checking  hand.  "Oh,  no,  not  Olivia." 
He  laughed  bitterly  at  the  indignant  advocacy  in  Olifant's 
tone.  "Olivia's  there — where  she  always  has  been — 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  235 

among  the  stars.  It's  I  that  have  fallen.  Good  God! 
like  Lucifer.  It's  I  that  crawl."  He  caught  an  accusing 
question  in  the  other's  hardening  eyes.  "It  isn't  what  you 
might  naturally  think.  There's  not  the  ghost  of  another 
woman.  There  never  has  been — never  shall  be.  It's 
my  only  clean  record.  And  I  love  her — my  God!  My 
soul's  in  Hell,  aching  and  burning  and  shrieking  for  her. 
I  shall  live  in  Hell  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Olifant  turned,  and  wheeling  round  his  writing-chair 
sat  down  and  pointed  to  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire. 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me  quietly  what  is  the  matter." 

But  Triona  waved  aside  the  invitation  and  remained 
standing.  "The  matter  is  that  I'm  an  impostor  and  a 
liar,  and  Olivia  has  found  it  out.  Listen.  Don't  ask 
questions  until  I've  done.  I'm  here  for  Olivia's  sake. 
You're  the  only  creature  in  the  world  that  can  understand 
— the  only  one  that  can  help  her  through.  And  she 
couldn't  tell  you.  Her  pride  wouldn't  let  her.  And  if  it 
did,  the  ordeal  for  her!  You'll  be  able  to  go  to  her  now 
and  say,  'I  know  everything.'  " 

"Up  to  now,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Olifant,  "you've 
been  talking  in  riddles.  But  before  you  begin,  let  me  re- 
mind you  that  there  are  two  sides  to  every  story.  What 
I  mean  is — get  it  into  your  head  that  I  realize  I'm  listen- 
ing to  your  side." 

"But  there  aren't  two  sides,"  cried  Triona.  "You 
don't  suppose  I've  come  down  here  to  defend  myself! 
If  you  see  when  I've  done  that  I've  had  some  excuse,  that 
there  is  a  grain  of  saving  grace  lying  somewhere  hidden 
— all  well  and  good.  But  I'm  not  here  to  plead  a  case. 
Haven't  I  cleared  the  ground  by  telling  you  I'm  a  liar  and 
an  impostor?" 


236  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Olifant  again  looked  searchingly  at  the  pale  and  hag- 
gard-eyed young  man,  his  brown  hair  unkempt  and  falling 
across  his  broad  forehead,  his  lips  twitching  nervously; 
and  the  elder  man's  glance  turned  to  one  of  pitying 
kindness.  He  rose,  laid  his  hand  on  the  lapel  of  the  wet 
coat. 

"You'll  take  this  off,  at  any  rate.  There — we'll  hang 
it  over  the  fender-seat  to  dry.  Sit  beside  it  and  dry 
your  legs.  It's  no  good  catching  your  death  of  cold." 

Triona  submitted  to  the  friendly  authority  and  sat 
down  in  his  shirt  sleeves  before  the  blaze.  Olifant,  aware 
of  the  sedative  value  of  anticlimax,  smiled  and  offered 
refreshments.  Tea — coffee — a  drop  of  something  to  keep 
out  the  cold.  Triona  suddenly  glanced  at  him. 

"I'll  never  touch  alcohol  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

A  cigarette,  then?  Olifant  handed  the  box,  held  a 
match.  Triona  smoked.  Olifant  re-lit  his  pipe  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Now  let  me  have  the  plain,  unvarnished  tale." 

They  smoked  many  cigarettes  and  many  pipes  during 
the  telling  of  the  amazing  story.  As  his  life  had  unfolded 
itself  in  the  grimness  of  the  little  Newcastle  kitchen, 
so  he  recounted  it  to  Olifant.  In  his  passionate  final 
grip  on  Truth,  which  for  the  last  few  months  of  his 
awakening  had  proved  so  elusive,  he  tried  to  lay  bare  the 
vain  secret  of  every  folly  and  the  root  of  every  lie.  The 
tangled  web  of  the  hackneyed  aphorism  he  unwove, 
tracking  every  main  filament  to  its  centre,  every  cross- 
thread  from  the  beginning  to  end  of  its  vicious  circle. 

Plain  unvarnished  tale  it  was  not  in  the  man's  nature 
to  give.  Even  in  his  agony  of  avowal  he  must  be  dra- 
matic, must  seize  on  the  picturesque.  Now  he  sat  on  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  237 

narrow  leather-covered  fender-seat,  hunched  up,  his  eyes 
ablaze,  narrating  the  common  actualities  of  his  life;  and 
now  he  strode  about  the  room,  with  great  gestures  of  his 
pink-shirted  arms,  picturing  vividly  the  conflicting  emo- 
tions of  his  soul.  First  he  sketched — so  it  seemed  to  the 
temperamentally  remote  Olifant — in  broad  outlines  of 
flame,  his  true  career.  Then  in  strokes,  like  red-hot  wire, 
he  filled  in  the  startling  details.  The  grizzled  head  and 
sharp-cut  features  of  the  naked  body  of  the  dead  man 
Krilov  in  the  ditch — the  cold  grey  waste  around — the  find- 
ing of  the  odds  and  ends,  the  glint  of  the  pocket-compass 
behind  a  few  spikes  of  grass,  the  false  teeth,  the  little 
black  book,  the  thing  of  sortilege,  of  necromantic  in- 
fluence .  .  .  the  spell  of  the  book  in  the  night  watches 
in  the  North  Sea,  its  obsession;  his  pixy-led  infatuation 
which  made  him  cast  aside  the  slough  of  John  Briggs  and 
sun  himself  in  the  summer  of  the  world  as  the  dragon- 
fly, Alexis  Triona.  In  swift  lines,  too,  of  a  Will-o'-the- 
Wisp's  dance  he  revealed  the  course  of  his  love.  Then, 
unconsciously,  before  the  concentrated  gaze  of  the  other 
man  he  dropped  a  baffling  gauze  curtain,  as  on  a  stage, 
through  which  his  motives  and  his  actions  appeared  un- 
certain and  unreal. 

Olifant  had  listened  in  astounded  silence.  His  first 
instinct  was  one  of  indignation.  He  had  been  unfor- 
givably deceived  by  this  exterior  of  friendship  under  false 
pretences.  The  blow  dealt  to  unregenerate  man's  innate 
vanity  hurt  like  a  stab.  His  own  clear  soul  rose  in  revolt. 
The  fellow's  mendacity,  bewildering  in  its  amplitude, 
would  have  set  Hell  agape.  He  shivered  at  the  cold 
craft  of  his  imposture;  besides,  he  was  a  ghoul,  a  stripper 
of  the  dead.  He  lost  the  man  he  had  loved  in  a  new 


238  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

and  incomprehensible  monster.  But  as  Triona  went  on 
he  gradually  fell  under  the  spell  of  his  passionate  re- 
morse, and  found  himself  setting  the  human  against  the 
monstrous  and  wondering  which  way  the  balance  would 
turn.  And  then  he  became  suddenly  aware  of  the  impos- 
tor's real  and  splendid  achievements,  and  he  stood  in  piti- 
ful amaze  at  the  futility  of  the  unnecessary  fraud. 

"But  why,  in  God's  name?  Why?"  he  cried,  staring 
through  the  baffling  curtain.  "A  man  of  genius,  you 
would  have  held  your  own  without  all  this." 

"I  could  have  done  nothing  without  the  help  of  that 
damned  little  black  book.  Don't  you  see  how  the  necro- 
mancy of  the  thing  gripped  me — how  it  has  got  its  diaboli- 
cal revenge?  I  told  you  not  to  ask  me  questions,"  Tri- 
ona burst  out  fiercely.  "You're  trying  to  make  me  de- 
fend myself."  He  swung  away,  then  laughed  mirth- 
lessly. "There  seems  to  be  a  poetic  justice  in  life.  This 
room  in  which  we  have  spent  so  many  hours — it's  filled 
from  floor  to  ceiling  with  my  lies.  Now  I  come  with 
Truth,  a  sort  of  disinfectant.  Perhaps  I  was  driven  back 
just  to  do  it." 

Olifant  knitted  a  perplexed  brow.  Such  fantastic  psy- 
chologies were  beyond  his  simple  scientific  habit  of  mind. 
He  said: 

"You  told  me  you  came  here  on  account  of  Olivia." 

"Of  course." 

"Well — I  must  ask  you  again  the  same  everlasting 
'Why?'  How  could  you  dare  to  marry  her  with  this  lie 
on  your  soul?" 

"Yes.    How  dared  I?"  said  Triona  dejectedly. 

"But  wouldn't  it  have  been  quite  simple  to  tell  her  the 
truth?  You  could  have  afforded  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  239 

it.  You  had  proved  yourself  a  remarkable  man,  apart 
from — from  the  Triona  myth.  And  she  is  big  enough  to 
have  stood  it.  Why,  in  God's  name,  didn't  you  trust 
her?" 

Triona  threw  out  his  hands  helplessly.  He  did  not 
know.  Again  he  pleaded  the  unseen  power  that  had 
driven  him.  When  he  had  tried  to  resist,  it  was  too  late. 

"And  now  you  think  me  a  fool  and  a  knave." 

"I  think  you're  a  fool,"  said  Olifant. 

"But  not  a  scoundrel?  I  should  like  to  know.  You 
were  the  first  man  who  really  held  out  the  hand  of 
friendship  to  me.  Till  then  people  regarded  me  as  an 
interesting  specimen.  You  took  me  on  my  human  side. 
I  shall  never  forget  coming  to  your  sister's  house  at  Ox- 
ford. It  was  a  new  and  wonderful  atmosphere." 

"If  that  is  so,"  said  Olifant,  "why  didn't  it  compel 
confidence — something  of  the  real  truth?  I  see  you  now 
telling  my  sister  and  myself  your  fairy  tale;  in  the  same 
fervid  way  as  you've  been  telling  me  the  truth  this 
morning." 

Triona  rose  and  put  on  his  jacket  which  now  was  dry. 

"How  can  I  hope  to  make  you  understand,  when  I 
don't  understand  myself?  Besides,"  he  flashed,  after 
shrugging  himself  impatiently  into  the  garment,  "haven't 
I  said  I  wasn't  seeking  condonation  or  sympathy?" 

"You  asked  me  whether  I  thought  you  a  scoundrel," 
said  Olifant  quietly. 

"Well,  do  you?     Say  I  am,  and  have  done  with  it." 

"If  I  did,  I  don't  see  what  good  it  would  do,"  replied 
Olifant,  a  vague  comprehension  of  this  imaginative  alien 
soul  dawning  on  his  mind.  "You're  out  for  penance  in 
the  same  crazy  way  you've  been  out  for  everything  else. 


240  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

So  you  hand  me  the  scourge  and  tell  me  to  lay  on.  But 
I  won't.  Also — if  I  committed  myself  by  calling  you  an 
unmitigated  blackguard,  I  couldn't  give  you  the  advice 
that  it's  in  my  heart  to  give  you." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"To  go  back  to  Olivia  and  do  your  penance  with  her  by 
telling  and  living  the  truth.  Magna  est  veritas  et  prceval- 
ebit.  Especially  with  a  woman  who  loves  you." 

Triona  turned  to  the  table  by  the  window  and  stared 
out  into  the  rain-swept  garden,  and  the  vision  of  a  girl 
horror-stricken,  frozen,  dead,  rose  before  his  eyes.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  his  back  to  the  room: 

"You  mean  kindly  and  generously.  But  it's  impossible 
to  go  back.  The  man,  Alexis  Triona,  whom  she  loved, 
has  melted  away.  He  never  had  real  existence.  In  his 
place  she  sees  a  stranger,  one  John  Briggs,  whom  she 
loathes  like  Hell — I've  seen  it  in  her  eyes.  She  feels 
as  if  she  had  been  contaminated  by  contact  with  some  un- 
clean beast." 

Olifant  sprang  from  his  chair  and,  catching  him  by  the 
shoulder,  swung  him  round. 

"You  infernal  fool,  she  doesn't!" 

"I  know  better,"  said  Triona. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  I  know  her  better,"  Olifant 
retorted. 

"Well — that  is  possible,"  said  Triona.  "You're  of 
her  caste.  I'm  not.  I've  pretended  to  be,  and  that's 
how  I've  come  to  grief.  You're  a  good  fellow,  Olifant, 
straight,  just  like  her;  and  neither  of  you  can  understand 
the  man  who  runs  crooked." 

"Crooked  be  damned!"  exclaimed  Olifant. 

But  all  his  condemnation  of  self-accusing  epithets 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  241 

could  not  dissuade  the  fate-driven  young  man  from  his 
purpose.  Triona  repeated  the  original  intention  of  his 
visit:  to  put  Olifant  in  complete  possession  of  facts  which 
Olivia's  pride  might  not  allow  her  to  reveal,  and  to 
charge  him,  thus  equipped,  with  Olivia's  immediate  wel- 
fare. At  last  he  burst  out  again: 

"Man  alive!  Don't  torture  me.  All  the  devils  in  Hell 
are  doing  it,  and  they're  enough  for  any  man.  Have 
some  imagination!  Think  what  it  would  mean  to  her  to 
have  me  crawling  about  in  her  path  for  ever  and  ever. 
When  love  is  dead  it's  dead.  There's  no  resurrection. 
She  loved  Alexis  Triona.  Won't  you  ever  understand? 
He's  dead.  The  love's  dead.  If  I  stayed  with  her,  I 
should  be  a  kind  of  living  corpse  to  which  she's  tied. 
So  I'm  going  away — out  of  her  life  altogether." 

"And  where  are  you  going?" 

"Just  out  into  the  spaciousness  of  the  wide  world," 
replied  Triona  with  a  gesture.  He  looked  suddenly  at 
his  wrist  watch.  "Good  Lord!"  he  cried.  "I've  only 
just  time  to  catch  my  train.  Good-bye." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Olifant.  "Do  you  think  it  fair 
on  a  woman?  While  you  disappear  for  ever  into  spa- 
ciousness she'll  remain  none  the  less  married — tied  to  you 
for  the  rest  of  her  life." 

"Oh,  don't  let  her  worry  about  that!"  cried  Triona. 
"I'll  soon  be  dead." 

He  sped  to  the  door.  Olifant  clutched  at  him  and  for 
a  while  held  fast. 

"Never  mind  trains.  You'll  stay  here  to-day.  I  can't 
let  you  go — in  this  hysterical  state." 

But  Triona  wrenched  himself  free.  A  one-armed  man 
is  at  a  physical  disadvantage  in  a  struggle  with  a  wiry  two- 


242  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

armed  opponent.  Olifant  was  pushed  staggering  back, 
and,  before  he  could  recover  himself,  Triona  had  flashed 
from  the  room,  and  a  moment  later  the  clang  of  the  front 
door  told  him  he  had  left  the  house. 

Olifant,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  went  to  the  tele- 
phone and  gave  a  London  number.  Then  he  drew  his 
chair  nearer  the  fire  and  relit  his  pipe  and  waited  for  the 
call  to  come  through.  Work  was  impossible.  He  was 
in  no  mood  to  enter  into  the  gaiety  of  printers  in  their 
dance  through  the  dead  languages  with  which  his  biological 
pages  were  strewn.  His  heart  was  exceeding  heavy. 
He  stared  into  the  fire  and  thought  of  what  might  have 
been,  had  he  not  been  a  fool.  At  any  rate,  she  would 
have  been  spared  misery  such  as  this.  He  had  loved 
her  from  the  moment  she  had  opened  that  untouched 
room  upstairs,  and  the  delicate  spirit  of  one  that  was 
dead  had  touched  them  with  invisible  hands.  And  he  had 
been  a  fool.  Just  a  dry  stick  of  a  tongue-tied,  heart- 
hobbled,  British  fool.  It  had  only  been  when  another, 
romantic  and  unreticent,  had  carried  her  off  that  he  re- 
alized the  grotesqueness  of  his  unutterable  pain.  Well, 
she  was  married,  and  married  to  the  man  to  whom  he  had 
given  his  rare  affection;  and,  folly  of  follies,  all  his  in- 
timacy with  her  had  grown  since  her  marriage.  She 
was  inexpressibly  dear  to  him.  Her  hurt  was  his  hurt. 
Her  happiness  all  that  mattered.  And  she  loved  her  mad- 
man of  a  husband.  Deep  down  in  her  heart  she  loved 
him  still,  in  spite  of  shock  and  disillusion.  Of  that  he  was 
certain.  He  himself  forgave  him  for  his  wild,  boyish 
lovableness.  Olivia  abandoned — it  was  unthinkable! 

After  an  eternity  the  telephone  bell  rang.    He  leaped 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  243 

up.  Eventually  came  the  faint,  clear  notes  of  a  voice 
which  was  Olivia's.  They  established  identities. 

"Alexis  has  been  here.  Has  told  me  everything.  He 
has  left  here  by  the  midday  train.  Of  course,  I  don't 
know  whether  you  want  to  see  him;  but  if  you  do  his  train 
gets  into  Paddington  at  six-fifteen." 

And  the  voice  came  again: 

"Thanks.    I'll  meet  him  there." 

And  there  was  silence. 

Olivia  and  Myra  met  the  train  at  Paddington.  But 
they  sought  in  vain  for  Alexis  Triona.  He  had  not 
arrived  in  London. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  unhappy  young  man  rushed  through  the  train 
to  the  railway  station,  goaded  by  the  new  passion 
of  remorse  and  frantic  with  the  despair  which  had 
driven  him  from  the  accusing  horror  in  Olivia's  eyes. 
It  was  only  when  he  waited  on  the  platform  at  Worcester, 
where  he  must  change  to  the  main  line,  that  he  became 
suddenly  aware  of  loss  of  sanity.  His  suit-case,  con- 
taining all  the  belongings  which  he  had  taken  from  the 
flat,  was  lying  a  mile  or  so  away  at  the  inn  where  he 
had  spent  the  night.  He  had  not  slept,  not  even  gone 
to  bed,  not  even  opened  the  suit-case.  He  had  dashed 
out  before  the  inn  was  awake  to  catch  the  earliest  morn- 
ing train  to  Medlow.  And  from  that  moment  to  this,  just 
as  the  London  train  was  steaming  in,  both  luggage  and 
unpaid  bill  had  vanished  from  his  mind.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  go  to  the  inn  and  proceed  to  London  by 
a  later  train.  Thus,  Fate  had  stage-managed  for  him 
another  reception  of  Olivia. 

The  realization  of  his  crazy  lapse  of  memory  was  a 
sobering  shock.  Never  before  had  he  lost  grip  of  him- 
self. Hitherto,  the  tighter  the  corner — and  he  had  found 
himself  in  many — the  clearer  had  been  his  brain.  The 
consciousness  of  the  working  of  a  cool  intellect  had  given 
a  pleasurable  thrill  to  danger.  Now,  for  over  twenty- 
four  hours,  he  had  been  acting  like  a  madman,  in  con- 
templation of  which  the  only  thrill  he  experienced  was  one 
of  profound  disgust.  To  enter  whatever  sphere  of  life 

244 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  245 

the  effacement  of  Alexis  Triona  should  render  necessary, 
raving  like  a  maniac  would  be  absurd.  It  would  need  all 
his  wit. 

His  retrieved  suit-case  in  the  rack  of  the  third-class 
carriage,  the  paid  hotel  bill  in  his  pocket,  and  food,  up 
to  then  forgotten,  in  his  stomach,  he  fortified  himself  in 
this  decision,  until  exhausted  nature  claimed  profound 
and  untroubled  sleep. 

He  awoke  at  Paddington,  homeless  for  the  night.  Now 
his  brain  worked  normally.  Alexis  Triona  had  disap- 
peared from  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  was  therefore  es- 
sential to  avoid  hotels  where  Alexis  Triona  might  pos- 
sibly be  recognized.  Besides,  he  knew  that  West  End 
hotels  were  congested,  that  the  late-comers  to  London  had 
been  glad  to  find  a  couch  at  a  Turkish  Bath.  His  chauf- 
feur's knowledge  of  London  came  to  his  aid.  He  drove 
to  a  mouldy  hotel  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Euston  Road, 
and  there  found  a  frowzy  room.  The  contrast  between 
the  bed,  its  dingy  counterpane  sagging  into  the  worn 
hollow  of  the  mattress  beneath,  the  threadbare  rugs 
askew  on  the  oilcloth,  the  blistered  deal  washstand  and 
dressing-table,  the  damp,  dirty  paper,  the  bleak  blinds, 
and  the  sweet  and  dainty  appointments  of  the  home  he 
had  left  smote  him  till  he  could  have  groaned  aloud. 
Not  that  he  gave  a  thought  to  such  things  in  themselves. 
Physical  comfort  meant  little  to  him.  But  the  lost 
daintiness  signified  Olivia;  this  abominable  room,  the 
negation  of  her. 

He  sat  on  the  bed,  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  began  to 
think  clearly.  That  he  had  for  ever  forfeited  Olivia's 
affection  it  never  entered  his  head  to  doubt.  He  saw 
her  face  grow  more  cold  and  tragic,  and  her  eyes  more 


246  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

horror-stricken  at  every  fresh  revelation  of  mendacity. 
Loathing  himself,  he  had  not  pleaded  for  forgiveness;  he 
had  done  penance,  applied  the  lash,  blackening  himself 
unmercifully.  He  had  lost  sense  of  actual  things  in  his 
cold  romance  of  deception.  He  stood  before  her  self- 
proclaimed,  a  monster  of  lies.  Now  he  saw  himself  an 
unholy  stranger  profaning  the  sanctity  of  her  life.  He 
had  fought  for  Heaven  with  Hell's  weapons,  and  Eter- 
nal Justice  had  hurled  him  back  into  the  abyss.  In  the 
abyss  he  must  remain,  leaving  her  to  tread  the  stars. 

The  exposure  of  the  Vronsky  myth  had  hurt  her  as 
much  as  anything. 

"Vronsky?"  She  put  her  hands,  fingers  apart,  to  her 
temples.  "But  you  made  me  give  my  heart  to  Vronsky! " 

Yes,  surely  he  had  committed  towards  her  the  unfor- 
givable sin.  He  was  damned — at  any  rate,  in  this  world. 
To  rid  her  irremediably  of  his  pestilent  existence  was  the 
only  hope  of  salvation.  Olifant  was  a  fool,  speaking 
according  to  the  folly  of  an  honourable  gentleman.  He 
clenched  his  teeth  and  gripped  his  hands.  If  only  he 
could  have  been  such  a  fool!  To  appear  the  kind  of 
man  that  Olifant  easily,  naturally,  was  had  been  his 
gnawing  ambition  from  his  first  insight  into  gentle  life, 
long  ago,  in  the  Prince's  household.  But,  all  the  same, 
Olifant  was  a  fool — a  sort  of  Galahad  out  for  Grails,  and 
remote  from  the  baseness  in  which  he  had  wallowed. 

"Go  to  Olivia.    She  loves  you." 

Chivalrous  imbecile!  He  had  not  seen  Olivia's  great 
staring  dark  eyes  with  rims  around  them,  and  the  awful 
little  drawn  face. 

He  was  right — it  was  the  only  way  out. 

Yet,  during  all  this  interview  with  Olivia,  he  had  been 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  247 

quite  sane.  He  had  indulged  in  no  histrionics.  He  had 
not  declaimed,  and  flung  his  arms  about,  as  he  had  done 
in  Olifant's  study.  He  had  felt  himself  talking  like  a  dead 
man  immersed  up  to  the  neck  in  the  flames  of  Hell,  but 
possessed  of  a  cold  clear  intellect.  In  a  way,  he  was 
proud  of  this.  To  have  made  an  emotional  appeal  would 
have  obscured  the  issue  towards  which  his  new-found 
honesty  was  striving. 

His  last  words  to  Olivia  were: 

"And  the  future?" 

She  said  hopelessly:  "Is  there  a  future?" 

Then  she  drew  a  deep  breath  and  passed  her  fingers 
across  her  face. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  any  more,  for  heaven's  sake.  I 
must  be  alone.  I  must  have  air.  I  must  walk." 

She  shrank  wide  of  him  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her, 
and  she  passed  out,  her  eyes  remote. 

It  was  then  that  the  poet-charlatan  became  suddenly 
aware  of  his  sentence.  If  the  Avengers,  or  what  not 
uncheerful  personages  of  Greek  Tragedy  had  surrounded 
him  with  their  ghastly  shapes  and  had  chanted  their  dis- 
mal Choric  Ode  of  Doom,  his  inmost  soul  could  not  have 
been  more  convinced  of  that  which  he  must  forthwith  do. 
He  never  thought  of  questioning  the  message.  He  faced 
the  absolute. 

Waiting  until  he  heard  the  click  of  the  outer  door  of 
the  flat  announcing  Olivia's  departure  in  quest  of  un- 
polluted air,  he  went  into  his  dressing-room  and  packed 
a  suit-case  with  necessaries,  including  the  despatch-case 
which  contained  his  John  Briggs  papers  and  the  accursed 
little  black  book. 

He  met  Myra  in  the  hall,  impassive. 


248  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"If  you  had  told  me  you  were  going  on  a  journey,  I 
would  have  packed  for  you.  Does  Mrs.  Triona  know?" 

"No,"  said  he.    "She  doesn't.    Wait." 

He  left  her,  and  returned  a  few  moments  afterwards 
with  a  note  he  had  scribbled.  After  all,  Olivia  must 
suffer  no  uncertainty.  She  must  not  dread  his  possible 
return. 

"Give  that  to  Mrs.  Triona." 

"Are  you  coming  back?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  at  a  Fate  in  a  black  gown  relieved 
by  two  solitary  patches  of  white  at  the  wrists. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that?" 

"You  look  as  if  you  weren't,"  said  Myra.  "I  know 
there  has  been  trouble  to-day." 

He  had  always  stood  in  some  awe  of  this  efficient  autom- 
aton of  a  woman,  who  had  never  given  him  a  shadow 
of  offence,  but  in  whom  he  had  divined  a  jealousy  which 
he  had  always  striven  to  propitiate.  But  now  she  awak- 
ened a  forlorn  sense  of  dignity. 

He  picked  up  his  suit-case. 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  you,  Myra?" 

"If  Mrs.  Triona's  room  was  on  fire  and  I  rushed  in 
through  the  flames  to  save  her,  would  you  ask  me  what 
business  it  was  of  mine?" 

The  artist  in  him  wondered  for  a  moment  at  her  even, 
undramatic  presentation  of  the  hypothesis.  He  could 
not  argue  the  point,  however,  knowing  her  life's  devotion 
to  Olivia.  So  yielding  to  the  unlit,  pale  blue  eyes  in  the 
woman's  unemotional  face,  he  said: 

"Yes.  There  is  trouble.  Deadly  trouble.  It's  all  my 
doing.  You  quite  understand  that?" 

"It  couldn't  be  anything  else,  sir,"  said  Myra. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  249 

"And  so  I'm  going  away  and  never  coming  back." 

He  moved  to  the  door.  She  made  the  swift  pace  or 
two  of  the  trained  servant  to  open  it  for  him.  She  stood 
for  a  few  seconds  quite  rigid,  her  hand  on  the  door-knob. 
Their  eyes  met.  He  saw  in  hers  a  cold  hostility.  With- 
out a  word  he  passed  her,  and  heard  the  door  slam  behind 
him. 

It  was  when  he  reached  the  pavement,  derelict  on  the 
wastes  of  the  world,  that  his  nerves  gave  way.  Until 
the  click  of  his  brain  at  Worcester  station,  he  had  been 
demented. 

"Never  again,"  said  he. 

He  undressed  and  went  to  bed.  It  was  some  hours 
before  he  could  sleep.  But  sleep  came  at  last,  and  he 
woke  in  the  morning  refreshed  physically,  and  feeling 
capable  of  facing  the  unknown  future.  As  yet  he  had 
no  definite  plan.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  must  dis- 
appear. Merely  leaving  Olivia  and  setting  up  for  him- 
self elsewhere  as  Alexis  Triona  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
Alexis  Triona  and  all  that  his  name  stood  for — good  and 
evil — must  be  blotted  out  of  human  ken.  He  must  seek 
fortune  again  in  a  foreign  country.  Why  not  America? 
Writing  under  a  fresh  pseudonym,  he  could  maintain  him- 
self with  his  pen.  Bare  livelihood  was  all  that  mattered. 
Even  in  this  earthly  Lake  of  Fire  and  Brimstone  to 
which,  as  a  liar,  he  had  apocalyptically  condemned  him- 
self, a  man  must  live.  During  moments  of  his  madness 
he  had  dallied  with  wild 'thoughts  of  suicide.  His  fun- 
damental sanity  had  rejected  them.  He  was  no  coward. 
Whatever  punishment  was  in  store  for  him,  good  God! 
he  was  man  enough  to  face  it. 


250  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

In  his  swift  packing  he  had  seized  a  clump  of  his 
headed  note-paper.  A  sheet  of  this  he  took  when,  after 
breakfast,  he  had  remounted  to  his  frowzy  room,  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  publishers  informing  them  that  he 
was  suddenly  summoned  abroad,  and  instructing  them 
to  pay,  till  further  notice,  all  sums  accruing  to  him  into 
Olivia's  banking  account.  Consulting  his  pass-book,  he 
drew  a  cheque  in  Olivia's  favour,  which  he  enclosed  with 
a  covering  letter  to  Olivia's  bankers.  Then,  driving  to 
his  own  bank,  he  cashed  a  cheque  for  the  balance  of  some 
hundreds  of  pounds.  With  this,  he  prepared  to  start  life 
in  some  new  world.  Restless,  he  drove  back  to  his  hotel. 
Restless  still,  he  obeyed  the  instinct  of  his  life,  and  be- 
gan to  wander;  not  about  any  such  haunts  as  might  be 
frequented  by  his  acquaintances,  but  through  the  dingy 
purlieus  of  the  vague  region  north  of  the  line  of  Euston 
and  King's  Cross  Stations. 

It  was  in  a  mean  street  in  Somers  Town,  a  hopeless, 
littered  street  of  little  despairing  shops,  and  costers'  bar- 
rows, and  tousled  women  and  unclean  children,  that  they 
met.  They  came  up  against  each  other  face  to  face,  and 
recoiled  a  step  or  two,  each  scanning  the  other  in  a  puz- 
zlement of  recognition.  Then  Triona  cried: 

"Yes,  of  course — you're  Boronowski." 

"And  you — the  name  escapes  me — "  the  other  tapped 
his  forehead  with  a  fat,  pallid  hand  " — you're  the  chauf- 
feur-mechanic of  Prince " 

"Briggs,"  said  Triona. 

"Briggs — yes.  The  only  man  who  knew  more  than  I 
of  Ukranian  literature — I  a  Pole  and  you  an  Englishman. 
Ah,  my  friend,  what  has  happened  since  those  days?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  251 

"A  hell  of  a  lot,"  said  Triona. 

"You  may  indeed  say  so/'  replied  Boronowski.  He 
smiled.  "Well?" 

"Well?"  said  Triona. 

"What  are  you,  well-dressed  and  looking  prosperous, 
doing  in  this — "  he  waved  a  hand  " — in  this  sordidity?" 

Triona  responded  with  a  smile — but  at  the  foreign 
coinage  of  a  word. 

"I'm  just  wandering  about.    And  you?" 

"I'm  living  here  for  the  moment.  Living  is  costly 
and  funds  are  scarce.  I  go  back  to  Warsaw  to-morrow — 
next  week — a  fortnight " 

"Poland's  a  bit  upset  these  days,"  said  Triona. 

"That  is  why  I  am  here — and  that  is  why  I  am  going 
back,  my  friend,"  said  the  Pole. 

He  was  a  stout  man,  nearing  forty,  with  dark  eyes  and 
a  straggly  red  moustache  and  beard  already  grizzled. 
His  grey  suit  was  stained  with  wear;  on  his  jacket  a 
spike  of  thread  showing  where  a  button  was  missing.  He 
wore  an  old  black  felt  hat  stuck  far  back  on  his  head, 
revealing  signs  of  baldness  above  an  intellectual  fore- 
head. 

Triona  laughed.  "Was  there  ever  a  Pole  who  was  not 
a  conspirator?" 

"Say  rather,  was  there  ever  a  Pole  who  did  not  love 
his  country  more  than  his  life?" 

"Yes.  I  must  say,  you  Poles  are  patriotic,"  said 
Triona. 

Boronowski's  dark  eyes  flashed,  and  seizing  his  com- 
panion's arm,  he  hurried  him  along  the  encumbered  pave- 
ment. 

"Why  do  you  Englishmen  who  have  lately  died  and 


252  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

bled  in  millions  for  your  country,  always  have  a  little 
laugh,  a  little  sneer,  at  patriotism?  To  listen  to  you, 
one  would  think  you  cared  nothing  for  your  country's 
welfare." 

"We've  been  so  sure  of  it,  you  see." 

"But  we  Poles  have  not.  For  two  centuries' we  have 
not  had  a  country.  For  two  centuries  we  have  dreamed 
of  it,  and  now  we  have  got  it  at  last,  and  our  blood  sings 
in  our  veins,  and  we  have  no  other  interest  on  earth. 
And  just  as  we  are  beginning  to  realize  the  wonder  of  it, 
we  find  ourselves  enmeshed  in  German  intrigue,  with 
our  promised  way  to  the  sea  blocked,  with  the  Powers 
saying:  'No  Ukraine,  no  Galicia,'  and  with  the  Russian 
Red  Army  attacking  us.  Ah,  no.  We  are  not  so  assured 
of  our  country's  welfare  that  we  can  afford  to  depreciate 
patriotism." 

"What  are  you  doing  here  in  England?"  asked  Triona. 

"Breaking  my  heart,"  cried  Boronowski  passionately. 
"I  come  for  help,  and  find  only  fair  words.  I  ask  for 
money  for  guns  and  munitions  for  the  enforcement  of 
the  Treaty  of  Versailles,  and  they  reply,  'Oh,  we  can't 
do  that.  Our  Labour  Party  wouldn't  allow  us  to  do  that. 
But  we'll  tell  those  naughty  Bolshevists  to  leave  you 
alone.'  So  I  return,  my  mission  a  failure.  Oh,  I  play  a 
very  humble  part.  I  do  not  wish  to  magnify  myself. 
Those  with  me  have  failed.  We  are  cast  on  our  own 
resources.  We  are  fighting  for  our  new  national  life. 
And  as  the  blood  in  our  hearts  and  the  thought  in  our 
brains  cry  Toland,  Poland,'  so  shall  the  words  be  ever 
loud  in  our  mouths.  And  look.  If  we  did  not  cry  out, 
who  would  listen  to  us?  And  we  are  crying  our  Toland, 
Poland,'  in  all  the  Entente  and  neutral  countries — I, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  253 

Boronowski,  the  most  unimportant  of  all.  Perhaps  we 
are  voices  crying  in  the  wilderness.  But  one  Voice,  once 
on  a  time,  was  heard — and  revolutionized  the  world." 

The  man's  voice,  crying  in  the  wilderness  of  the  sordid 
Somers  Town  street,  awoke  at  any  rate  a  responsive, 
chord  in  the  sensitive  creature  by  his  side. 

"Of  course,  I  understand,"  said  he.  "Forgive  my  idle 
speech.  But  I  am  in  great  personal  trouble,  and  I  spoke 
with  the  edge  of  my  lips." 

Boronowski  flashed  a  glance  at  him. 

"Do  you  know  the  remedy?  The  remedy  for  silly 
unhappinesses  that  affect  you  here  and  here — "  he 
swung  a  hand,  touching  forehead  and  heart  " — the  little 
things " 

"I'm  damned  if  they're  little,"  said  Triona. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  exclaimed  the  Pole,  halting  suddenly 
in  front  of  a  wilting  greengrocer's  shop,  and  holding  him 
by  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "Procure  for  yourself  a  sense 
of  proportion.  In  the  myriad  of  animated  beings,  what 
is  the  individual  but  an  insignificant  atom?  What  are 
your  sufferings  in  the  balance  of  the  world's  sufferings? 
Yes.  Yes.  Of  course  you  feel  them — the  toothache,  the 
heartache,  the  agony  of  soul.  But  I  claim  that  the  indi- 
vidual has  a  remedy." 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Triona. 

"He  must  cast  off  the  individual,  merge  his  pain  in  the 
common  sorrow  of  humanity.  He  must  strip  him-- 
self  free  of  self,  and  identify  himself  with  a  great, 
cause." 

A  rusty  virago,  carrying  a  straw  marketing  bag,  pushed 
him  rudely  aside,  for  he  was  blocking  the  entrance  to  the 
shop. 


254  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"We  can't  talk  here,"  he  said,  recovering  his  balance. 
"Do  you  want  to  talk?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Very  much,"  replied  Triona,  suddenly  aware  that 
this  commonplace  looking  prophet,  vibrating  with  inspira- 
tion, might  possibly  have  some  message  for  him,  spirit- 
ually derelict. 

"Then  come  up  to  my  rooms." 

To  Triona's  surprise,  he  plunged  into  the  crowded 
greengrocer's  shop,  turned  into  an  evil-smelling,  basket- 
littered  passage  at  the  back,  mounted  a  couple  of  flights 
of  unclean  stairs,  and  unlocked  and  threw  open  the  door 
of  an  untidy  sitting-room  looking  out  on  to  the  noisy 
street.  He  swung  a  wooden  chair  from  a  little  deal  table 
strewn  with  paper,  and  pointed  to  a  musty  sofa. 

"That,"  said  he  courteously,  "is  the  more  comfortable. 
Pray  be  seated." 

He  picked  a  depopulated  packet  of  cigarettes  from 
the  table. 

"Will  you  smoke?  For  refreshment,  I  can  offer  you 
tea — "  he  pointed  to  a  spirit-lamp  and  poor  tea  equipage 
in  a  corner.  He  did  the  honours  of  his  mildewed  estab- 
lishment with  much  grace.  Triona  accepted  the  cigar- 
ette, but  declined  the  tea.  Boronowski  seated  himself 
on  the  wooden  chair.  Having  taken  off  his  hat,  he 
revealed  himself  entirely  bald,  save  for  a  longish  grizzling 
red  fringe  at  the  back,  from  ear-tip  to  ear-tip.  The 
quick  rites  of  hospitality  performed,  he  plunged  again 
into  impatient  speech,  recapitulating  what  he  had  said 
before  and  ending  in  the  same  peroration. 

"Salvation  lies  in  a  man's  effacement  of  himself,  and 
his  identification  with  a  great  cause." 

"But,  my  dear  man,"  cried  Triona  feverishly,  "what 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  255 

great  cause  is  there  in  the  world  for  an  Englishman  of 
the  present  day  to  devote  himself  to?  Look  at  the 
damned  country.  You're  living  in  it.  Is  there  a  cry 
anywhere,  'England  iiber  alles?'  Have  you  seen  any  en- 
thusiasm for  any  kind  of  idea?  Of  course  I  love  my 
country.  I've  fought  for  her  on  land  and  sea.  I've 
been  wounded.  I've  been  torpedoed.  And  I'd  go 
through  it  all  over  again  if  my  country  called.  But  my 
country  doesn't  call." 

He  rose  from  the  sofa  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
little  room,  throwing  about  his  arms,  less  like  an  English- 
man than  his  Polish  host,  who,  keeping  his  eyes  on  him, 
nodded  his  head  in  amazed  approbation  as  he  developed 
his  thesis — that  of  the  fervid  creature  eager  to  fight  Eng- 
land's battles,  but  confronted  with  England's  negation  of 
any  battles  to  fight. 

"The  only  positive  ideal  in  England  at  the  present 
moment  is  Bolshevism.  The  only  flag  waved  in  this  war- 
wearied  country  is  the  red  flag.  All  the  rest  is  negative. 
Not  what  we  can  do — but  what  we  can  prevent.  And 
you,  Boronowski,  a  professor  of  history,  know  very  well 
that  no  Gospel  of  Negation  has  ever  succeeded  since  the 
world  began.  Hook  at  me,"  he. said,  standing  before  the 
Pole,  with  wide,  outstretched  arms,  "young,  fit,  with  a 
brain  that  has  proved  itself — I  won't  tell  you  how — and 
eager  to  throw  my  personal  sufferings  into  the  world's 
melting-pot — to  live,  my  dear  fellow,  to  work,  to  devote 
myself  to  some  ideal.  I  must  do  that,  or  die.  It's  all 
very  well  for  you  to  theorize.  You  do  it  beautifully. 
There's  not  a  word  wrong  in  anything  you  say.  But 
what  is  the  Great  Cause  that  I  can  devote  myself  to?" 

"Poland,"  said  Boronowski. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  word  was  like  the  lash  of  a  whip.    He  stared 
at  the  patriot  open-mouthed. 
"Yes,  Poland,"  said  Boronowski.    "Why  not? 
You  want  to  fight  for  a  Great  Cause.    Is  not  a  free  and 
independent  Poland  the  keystone  of  the  arch  of  recon- 
structed Europe?     It  is  a  commonplace  axiom.     Poland 
otherthrown,    overrun    with    Bolshevism,    all    Europe 
crumbles  into  dust.    The  world  is  convulsed.     Fighting 
for  Poland  is  fighting  for  the  salvation  of  the  world. 
Could  there  be  a  greater  cause?" 

His  dark  eyes  glowed  with  compelling  inspiration. 
His  outflung  arm  ended  in  a  pointing  finger.  And  Triona 
saw  it  as  the  finger  of  Salvation  Yeo  in  his  boyhood's 
picture. 

"Wonderful,  wonderful,"  he  said,  below  his  breath. 

"And  simple.  Come  with  me  to  Warsaw.  I  have 
friends  of  some  influence.  Otherwise  I  should  not  be 
here.  The  Polish  Army  would  welcome  you  with  open 
arms." 

Triona  thrust  out  a  sudden  hand,  which  the  other 
gripped. 

"By  God!"  he  cried,  "I'll  come." 

An  hour  afterwards,  his  brain  dominated  by  the  new 
idea,  he  danced  his  way  through  the  melancholy  streets. 
Here,  indeed,  was  salvation.  Here  he  could  live  the  life 
of  Truth.  Here  was  the  glorious  chance — although  he 
would  never  see  her  on  earth  again — of  justifying  him- 

256 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  257 

self  in  Olivia's  eyes.  And  in  itself  it  was  a  marvellous 
adventure.  There  would  be  endless  days  when  he  should 
live  for  the  hour  that  he  was  alive,  without  thought  of 
an  unconjecturable  to-morrow.  Into  the  cause  of  Poland 
he  would  fling  his  soul.  Yes,  Boronowski  was  right. 
The  sovereign  remedy.  His  individual  life — what  did 
it  matter  to  him?  All  the  beloved  things  were  past  and 
gone.  They  lay  already  on  the  further  side  of  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  His  personality  was  merged 
into  a  self-annihilating  creature  that  would  henceforth 
be  the  embodiment  of  a  spiritual  idea. 

Thus  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  during  the  night,  his 
mind  worked.  Arrived  in  Poland,  he  would  press  for 
the  fiercest  section  of  the  front.  The  bullet  that  killed 
him  would  be  welcome.  He  would  die  gloriously. 
Olivia  should  know. 

As  John  Briggs,  with  his  papers  in  order,  he  found  his 
passport  a  simple  matter.  Boronowski,  with  whom  he 
spent  most  of  his  time,  obtained  a  speedy  visa  at  the 
Polish  and  other  Consulates.  During  the  period  of  wait- 
ing he  went  carefully  through  the  contents  of  the  suit- 
case and  removed  all  traces  of  the  name  and  initials  of 
Alexis  Triona.  The  little  Mack  book  he  burned  page 
by  page  with  matches  in  the  empty  grate  of  his  room. 
When  it  was  consumed,  he  felt  himself  rid  of  an  evil 
thing.  In  strange  East  London  emporiums,  unknown  to 
dwellers  in  the  West  End,  and  discovered  by  restless 
wandering,  he  purchased  an  elementary  kit  for  the  cam- 
paign. Much  of  his  time  he  spent  in  Boronowski's  quar- 
ters in  Somers  Town,  reading  propaganda  pamphlets 
and  other  literature  dealing  with  Polish  actualities. 
When  the  Polish  Army  welcomed  him  with  open  arms, 


258  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

they  must  find  him  thoroughly  equipped.  He  bought 
a  Polish  grammar,  and  compiled  with  Boronowski  a 
phrase-book  so  as  to  be  prepared  with  an  elementary 
knowledge  of  the  language.  The  Pole  marvelled  at  his 
fervour. 

"You  spring  at  things  like  an  intellectual  tiger,"  said 
he,  "and  then  fasten  on  to  them  with  the  teeth  of  a  bull- 
dog." 

"I'm  a  quick  worker  when  I  concentrate,"  said  Triona. 

And  for  many  days  he  concentrated,  sleeping  and  eat- 
ing little,  till  his  cheeks  grew  gaunt  and  his  eyes  bright 
and  haggard.  In  his  interminable  talks  with  Boronow- 
ski, he  concentrated  all  his  faculties,  until  the  patriot 
would  laugh  and  accuse  him  of  a  tigerish  spring  on  the 
secrets  of  his  soul. 

"It's  true,"  cried  Triona,  "it's  the  soul  of  Poland  I 
want  to  make  enter  my  being.  To  serve  you  to  any 
purpose  I  must  see  through  Polish  eyes  and  feel  with  a 
Polish  heart,  and  feel  my  veins  thrill  with  the  spirituality 
of  Poland." 

"Is  that  possible?" 

"You  shall  see,"  answered  Triona. 

And  just  as  he  had  fallen  under  the  obsession  of  the 
dead  Krilov  during  the  night  watches  in  the  North  Sea, 
so  did  he  fall  under  the  obsession  of  this  new  Great 
Cause.  Something  fundamentally  histrionic  in  his  tem- 
perament flung  him  into  these  excesses  of  impersonation. 
Already  he  began  to  regret  his  resumption  of  the  plain 
name  of  John  Briggs.  Even  in  the  pre-war  Russian  days 
he  had  seldom  been  addressed  by  it.  For  the  first  social 
enquiry  in  Russia  elicited  the  Christian  name  of  a  man's 
father.  And  his  father's  name  being  Peter,  he  was  called 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  259 

by  all  and  sundry  Ivan  Petrovitch.  So  that  even  then, 
in  his  fervent  zeal  to  merge  himself  into  the  Russian 
spirit,  he  had  grown  to  regard  the  two  downright  words 
of  his  name  as  meaningless  monosyllables.  But  he 
strangled  the  regret  fiercely  as  soon  as  it  arose. 

"No,  by  heaven!"  said  he,  "No  more  lies." 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  unalterable  resolve,  as  he  lay  sleep- 
less with  overwrought  nerves  in  the  sour  room  in  the 
Euston  Road,  he  was  haunted  by  lunatic  Polish  forms, 
Brigiovski,  Brigowski,  which  he  might  adopt  without 
breaking  his  vow;  he  could  not  see  himself  in  the  part 
of  a  Polish  patriot  labelled  as  John  Briggs;  just  as 
well  might  a  great  actor  seek  to  identify  himself  with 
Hamlet  while  wearing  cricketing  flannels  and  a  bowler 
hat. 

Only  once  in  his  talks  with  Boronowski  did  he  refer 
to  the  unhappiness  to  which  he  was  to  apply  the  sovereign 
remedy.  The  days  were  passing  without  sign  of  imme- 
diate departure.  Boronowski,  under  the  orders  of  his 
superiors,  must  await  instructions.  Triona  chafed  at  the 
delay. 

Boronowski  smiled  indulgently. 

"The  first  element  in  devotion  to  a  cause,  or  a  woman, 
is  patience.  Illimitable  patience.  The  demands  of  a 
cause  are  very  much  like  those  of  a  woman,  apparently 
illogical  and  capricious,  but  really  inexorable  and  un- 
swerving in  their  purpose." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  talk  of  patience,"  Triona  fumed, 
"but  when  one  is  hag-ridden  as  I  am " 

Boronowski  smiled  again.     "Histoire  de  femme " 

Triona  flushed  scarlet  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"How  dare  you  twist  my  words  like  that?" 


260  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Boronowski  looked  at  him  for  a  puzzled  moment,  seek- 
ing the  association  of  ideas.  Then,  grasping  it: 

"Forgive  me,  my  friend,"  he  said  courteously.  "My 
English,  after  all,  is  that  of  a  foreigner.  The  word  con- 
nection was  far  from  my  mind.  I  took  your  speech  to 
mean  that  you  were  driven  by  unhappiness.  And  the 

unhappiness  of  a  young  man  is  so  often Again,  I 

beg  your  pardon." 

Triona  passed  his  hand  through  his  brown  hair. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'm  sorry.  Yes.  If  you  want 
to  know,  it's  a  woman.  She's  the  day-spring  from  on 
high,  and  I'm  damned  beyond  redemption.  The  best 
thing  that  could  happen  would  be  if  she  knew  I  were 
dead." 

Boronowski  tugged  at  his  little  greyish-red  beard.  A 
follower  of  great  causes  was  never  the  worse  for  having 
the  Furies  at  his  heels.  But  he  was  a  man  of  kindly 
nature. 

"No  one  while  he  is  alive  can  be  damned  beyond  re- 
deption,"  he  said.  "I  don't  wish  to  press  my  indiscretion 
further.  Yet,  as  an  older  man,  could  I  be  of  service  to 
you  in  any  way?" 

"No,  you're  very  kind,  but  no  one  can  help  me." 
Then  an  idea  flashed  across  his  excited  brain.  "Not 
until  I'm  dead.  Then,  perhaps,  you  might  do  something 
for  me." 

"You're  not  going  to  die  yet,  my  friend." 

"How  do  we  know?  I'm  going  to  fight.  The  first 
day  I  may  get  knocked  out.  Should  anything  happen  to 
me,  would  you  kindly  communicate  with  some  one?" 

He  moved  to  the  paper-littered  table  and  began  to 
scribble. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  261 

"It's  all  rather  premature,  my  friend,"  said  Boronow- 
ski.  "But  as  you  wish."  He  took  the  scrap  of  paper 
which  bore  the  name  and  address  of  Major  Olifant. 
"This  I  may  be  liable  to  lose.  I  will  enter  it  in  my  note- 
book." He  made  the  entry.  Then,  "May  I  say  a  se- 
rious word  to  you?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

"There  is  such  a  thing  as  the  fire  of  purification.  But 
— "  he  put  a  hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder, 
"you  can't  call  it  down  from  Heaven.  You  must  await 
its  coming.  So  we  get  back  to  my  original  remark.  Pa- 
tience, more  patience,  and  always  patience." 

This  was  consoling  for  the  moment;  but  after  a  few 
days'  further  grappling  with  the  Polish  language,  he 
burst  into  Boronowski's  lodgings  and  found  the  patriot 
at  his  table,  immersed  in  work. 

"If  we  don't  start  soon,"  he  cried,  "I'll  go  mad.  I 
haven't  slept  for  nights  and  nights.  I'll  only  sleep  when 
we  are  on  our  journey,  and  I  know  that  all  this  is  reality 
and  not  a  dream." 

"I've  just  had  orders,"  replied  Boronowski.  "We  start 
to-morrow  morning.  Here  are  our  tickets." 

That  night,  Triona  wrote  to  Olivia.  It  was  an  eternal 
farewell.  On  the  morrow  he  was  leaving  England  to 
offer  up  his  unworthy  life  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  Great 
Cause  of  Poland.  The  only  reparation  he  could  make  for 
the  wrong  he  had  done  her  was  to  beseech  her  to  look 
on  him  as  one  already  dead.  It  covered  many  pages. 

When  he  returned  to  his  musty  room  after  this  last 
hour's  heart-breaking  communion  with  her,  he  sat  on 
his  bed  overwhelmed  by  sudden  despair.  What  guar- 
antee had  she  of  this  departure  for  Poland  greater  than 


262  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

that  of  his  mission  to  Helsingfors  last  summer?  Would 
she  not  throw  the  letter  aside  in  disgust — another  roman- 
tic lie?  He  wished  he  had  not  written.  He  took  faint 
hope  again  on  the  reflection  that  by  posting  another 
letter  from  Warsaw  he  could  establish  his  veracity.  But 
why  should  he  keep  on  worrying  her  with  the  details  of 
his  miserable  existence?  Better,  far  better  that  she 
should  look  on  him  as  dead;  better,  far  better  that  she 
should  believe  him  dead,  so  that  she  could  reconstruct 
her  young  and  broken  life.  He  might  die  in  battle;  but 
then  he  might  not.  He  had  already  carried  his  life  safely 
through  battles  by  land  and  sea.  Again  he  might  come 
out  unscathed.  Even  if  he  was  killed,  how  should  she 
hear  of  his  death?  And  if  he  survived,  was  it  fair  that 
she  should  be  bound  by  law  eternally  to  a  living  ghost? 
Somebody  had  said  that  before.  It  was  Olifant.  Oli- 
fant,  the  fool  out  for  Grails,  yet  speaking  the  truth  of 
chivalry.  Well,  this  time — he  summoned  up  the  confi- 
dence of  dismal  hope — he  would  make  sure  that  he  was 
dead  and  that  she  heard  the  news.  At  any  rate,  he  had 
prepared  the  ground;  Boronowski  would  communicate 
with  Olifant. 

Then  came  a  knock  at  his  door — it  was  nearly  mid- 
night. The  night  porter  entered.  A  man  downstairs 
wished  to  see  him — a  foreigner.  A  matter  of  urgent 
importance. 

"Show  him  up,"  said  Triona. 

He  groaned,  put  both  his  hands  up  to  his  head.  He 
did  not  want  to  see  Boronowski  to-night.  His  distraught 
brain  could  not  stand  the  patriot's  tireless  lucidity  of 
purpose.  Boronowski  belonged  to  the  inhuman  band  of 
fanatics,  the  devotees  to  one  idea,  who  had  nothing  per- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  263 

sonal  to  sacrifice.  Just  like  lonely  old  maids  who  gave 
themselves  up  to  church-going  and  good  works,  and 
thereby  plumed  themselves  on  the  acquisition  of  im- 
mortal merit.  What  soul-shattering  tragedy  had  Boro- 
nowski  behind  him,  any  more  than  the  elderly  virgins 
aforesaid?  If  Boronowski  kept  him  up  talking  Poland 
till  three  o'clock  in  the  morning — as  he  had  already  done 
— he  would  go  mad.  No,  not  to-night.  The  mounting 
steps  on  the  uncarpeted  stairs  hammered  at  every  nerve 
in  his  body.  And  when  the  door  opened,  it  was  not  Bo- 
ronowski who  appeared,  but  a  pallid,  swarthy  wisp  of  a 
man  whom  Triona  recognized  as  one  Klinski,  a  Jew, 
and  a  trusted  agent  of  Boronowski.  He  was  so  evilly 
dressed  that  the  night  porter,  accustomed  to  the  drab 
clientele  of  the  sad  hostelry,  yet  thought  it  his  duty  to 
linger  by  the  door. 

Triona  dismissed  him  sharply. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  in  Russian,  for  he  was 
aware  of  the  man's  scanty  English. 

Klinski  did  not  know.  He  was  but  the  bearer  of  a 
letter,  a  large  envelope,  which  he  drew  from  his  breast 
pocket.  Triona  tore  it  open.  It  contained  two  envel- 
opes and  a  covering  letter.  The  letter  ran: 

"MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

"A  sudden  change  in  the  political  situation  has  made 
it  necessary  for  me  to  go — where  I  must  not  tell  you. 
So,  to  my  great  regret,  I  cannot  accompany  you.  You, 
however,  will  start  by  the  morning  train,  as  arranged. 
The  route,  as  you  know,  is  Paris,  Zurich,  Saltzburg,  and 
Prague.  I  enclose  letters  to  sound  friends  in  Prague 
and  Warsaw  who  will  relieve  you  of  all  worries  and 


264  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

responsibilities.  If  you  do  not  hear  from  me  in  Prague, 
where  I  should  like  you  to  remain  one  week — it  is  a  beau- 
tiful city,  and  the  Czecho-Slovak  Republic  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  outcomes  of  the  war — await  instructions 
at  Warsaw.  But  I  anticipate  picking  you  up  in  Prague. 

"Yours, 

"BORONOWSKI." 

A  moment  ago,  he  had  dreaded  the  interruption  of  Boro- 
nowski  on  his  nerve-racked  vigil.  Now  the  dismayed 
prospect  of  a  journey  across  Europe  alone  awoke  within 
him  a  sudden  yearning  for  Boronowski's  society.  A 
dozen  matters  could  be  cleared  up  in  an  hour's  talk. 
Suppose  Boronowski's  return  to  Warsaw  were  indefinitely 
delayed. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  back  the 
answer  to  Mr.  Boronowski  myself." 

"There  can  be  no  answer,"  said  Klinski. 

"Why?" 

"Mr.  Boronowski  left  his  lodgings  early  this  even- 
ing, and  has  gone — who  knows  where?" 

Triona  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  the  uncom- 
fortable way  of  conspirators  all  the  world  over.  To  him- 
self he  cursed  it  with  heatedness,  but  to  no  avail. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  the  letter  before?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  had  many  messages  to  deliver  to-night,  sir," 
said  Klinski,  "and  I  have  not  finished." 

The  stunted,  pallid  man  looked  tired  out,  half-starved. 
Triona  drew  from  his  pocket  a  ten-shilling  note.  Klin- 
ski drew  back  a  step. 

"I  thank  you.  But  in  the  service  of  my  country  I  can 
only  accept  payment  from  my  Government." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  265 

Triona  regarded  him  in  admiration. 
"It  must  be  a  great  country!" 
"It  is,"  said  Klinski,  with  a  light  in  his  eyes. 
"And  I'm  proud  to  go  and  fight  for  her." 
"It's  a  privilege  that  I  envy  you,"  said  Klinski.    "May 
God  preserve  you." 

Driven  by  the  impossibility  of  sleep  in  the  frowsy 
room,  by  the  incurable  wander-fever  which  took  him  at 
periods  of  unrest,  he  found  himself  an  hour  later  stand- 
ing before  the  block  of  flats  in  the  Buckingham  Palace 
Road,  staring  up  at  the  windows  of  his  home.  In  the 
bedroom  was  a  faint  streak  of  light  quite  visible  from 
below  through  a  crack  in  the  curtains.  He  remembered 
how,  a  year  ago,  he  had  been  compelled  by  a  similar 
impulse,  to  stand  romantically  beneath  the  building  which 
housed  her  sacredness,  and  how  the  gods,  smiling  on  him, 
had  delivered  her  into  his  rescuing  hands.  And  now 
there  were  no  gods — or  if  there  were,  they  did  but  mock 
him.  No  white  wraith  would  appear  on  the  pave- 
ment, turning  to  warm  flesh  and  blood,  demanding  his 
succour.  She  was  up  there,  wakeful,  behind  that  streak 
of  light. 

He  stood  racked  by  an  agony  of  temptation.  The 
Yale  latch  key  was  still  at  the  end  of  his  watch-chain. 
He  was  her  husband.  He  had  the  right  of  entrance. 
His  being  clamoured  for  her,  and  found  utterance  in 
a  horrible  little  cry.  The  light  invited  him  like  a  beacon. 
Yes.  He  would  cross  the  road.  Perhaps  the  fool  Oli- 
fant  was  right.  She  might  yet  love  him.  And  then,  as 
if  in  answer  to  his  half-crazed  imaginings,  the  light  went 
out. 


266  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He  turned,  and  walked  wearily  back  across  sleeping 
London. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  the  night  porter  admitted 
him.  He  stumbled  to  his  room.  As  his  train  left  Vic- 
toria at  eight,  it  would  be  an  absurdity  to  undress  and 
go  to  bed.  Utterly  weary,  he  threw  himself  on  it  as  he 
was,  his  brain  whirling.  There  could  be  no  question  of 
sleep. 

Yet  suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  daylight.  He 
started  up  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  past  seven. 
He  had  slept  after  all.  He  made  a  perfunctory  toilet 
and  hurriedly  completed  his  neglected  packing.  The 
drowsy  night  porter,  on  duty  till  eight,  tardily  answered 
his  summons,  and  took  his  suit-case  to  the  shabby  ves- 
tibule. Triona  followed,  with  heavy  great  coat  and  can- 
vas kit-bag,  his  purchases  for  the  campaign.  The  porter 
suggested  breakfast.  There  was  no  time.  Luckily  he 
had  paid  his  bill  the  evening  before.  All  he  demanded 
was  a  taxi. 

But  at  that  early  hour  of  the  morning  there  were  none, 
save  a  luggage-laden  few  bound  for  St.  Pancras  or  King's 
Cross. 

"I  can't  leave  the  hotel,  sir/'  said  the  porter,  "or  I 
would  get  you  one  from  Euston." 

"I'll  find  one,  then,"  said  Triona,  and  putting  on  the 
heavy  khaki  coat  and  gripping  suit-case  in  one  hand 
and  kit-bag  in  the  other,  he  set  off  along  the  Euston  Road. 
As  he  neared  the  station  entrance,  he  staggered  along, 
aching  and  sweating.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  not  to 
foresee  this  idiot  difficulty!  What  a  fool  he  had  been 
to  give  way  to  sleep.  He  came  in  view  of  the  dock. 
Given  a  cab,  he  would  still  have  time  to  catch  the  train 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  267 

at  Victoria.  He  had  it  on  his  brain  that  his  salvation 
depended  on  his  catching  the  train  at  Victoria.  He 
stumbled  into  the  outer  court,  past  the  hotel  wings.  An 
outgoing  taxicab  swirled  towards  him.  He  dropped  his 
burdens  and  stood  in  its  path  with  upheld  arms.  There 
was  a  sudden  pandemonium  of  hoarse  cries,  a  sounding 
of  brakes.  He  glanced  round  just  in  time  to  see,  for 
a  fraction  of  a  second,  the  entering  motor-lorry  which 
struck  him  down. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

OLIVIA  struggled  for  a  fortnight  against  Circum- 
stance, when  Circumstance  got  the  upper  hand. 
But  it  had  been  a  valiant  fight  from  the 
moment  Myra,  on  her  return  to  the  flat,  had  delivered 
Triona's  scribbled  note,  and  had  given  her  account  of  the 
brief  parting  interview. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  she  said.    "It's  the  only  way  out." 

She  made  a  brave  show  of  dining,  while  Myra  waited 
stoically.  At  last,  impelled  to  speech,  she  said: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"How  can  I  think  of  what  I  know  nothing  about?" 
said  Myra. 

"Would  you  like  to  know?" 

"My  liking  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  Myra 
brushing  the  crumbs  off  the  table.  "If  you  tell  me,  you 
tell  me  because  it  may  help  you.  But — I  know  it's  not 
a  Christian  thing  to  say — I'm  not  likely  to  forgive  the 
man  that  has  done  you  an  injury." 

"He  has  done  me  no  injury,"  said  Olivia.  "That's 
what  I  want  you  to  know.  No  injury  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word." 

She  looked  up  at  Myra's  impassive  face,  and  met  the 
dull  blue  eyes,  and  found  it  very  difficult  to  tell  her,  in 
spite  of  lifelong  intimacy.  Yet  it  was  right  that  Myra 
should  have  no  false  notions. 

"I've  discovered  that  my  husband's  name  is  not  Alexis 
Triona.  It  is  John  Briggs." 

268 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  269 

"John  Briggs,"  echoed  Myra. 

"His  father  was  a  labourer  in  Newcastle.  He  was  a 
chauffeur  in  Russia.  All  that  he  had  said  about  him- 
self and  written  in  his  book  is  untrue.  When  he  left  us 
last  summer  to  go  to  Finland,  he  really  went  to  New- 
castle to  his  mother's  death-bed.  Everything  he  has  told 
me  has  been  a  lie  from  beginning  to  end.  He — oh,  God, 
Myra " 

She  broke  down  and  clutched  her  face,  while  her 
throat  was  choking  with  dry  sobbing.  Myra  came 
swiftly  round  the  table  and  put  her  arm  about  her,  and 
drew  the  beloved  head  near  to  her  thin  body. 

"There,  there,  my  dear.  You  can  tell  me  more  an- 
other time." 

Olivia  let  herself  be  soothed  for  a  while.  Then  she 
pulled  herself  together  and  rose. 

"No,  I'll  tell  you  everything  now.  Then  we'll  never 
need  talk  of  it  again.  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  fool  of 
myself." 

She  stiffened  herself  against  feminine  weakness.  At 
the  end  of  the  story,  Myra  asked  her: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  carry  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
At  any  rate  for  the  present." 

Myra  nodded  slowly.  "You're  not  the  only  one  who 
has  had  to  carry  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Olivia  asked  quickly. 

"Nothing  but  what  I  said,"  replied  Myra.  "It  takes 
some  doing.  But  you've  got  to  believe  in  God  and  be- 
lieve in  yourself." 

"Where  did  you  get  your  wisdom  from,  Myra?"  asked 
Olivia  wonderingly. 


270  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"From  life,  my  dear,"  replied  Myra  with  unwonted 
softness.  And  picking  up  the  last  tray  of  removed  din- 
ner things,  she  left  the  room. 

The  next  afternoon,  she  said  to  Myra,  "Major  Olifant 
has  telephoned  me  that  Mr.  Triona  is  arriving  at  Pad- 
dington  by  a  six-fifteen  train.  I  should  like  you  to 
come  with  me." 

"Very  well,"  said  Myra. 

It  was  characteristic  of  their  relations  that  they  spoke 
not  a  word  of  Triona  during  their  drive  to  the  station 
or  during  their  wait  on  the  platform.  When  the  train 
came  in,  and  they  had  assured  themselves  that  he  had 
not  arrived — for  they  had  taken  the  precaution  to  sep- 
arate and  each  to  scan  a  half -section — they  re-entered 
their  waiting  taxicab  and  drove  home. 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  see  him  again,"  said  Olivia, 
humiliated  by  this  new  deception.  "He  told  Major 
Olifant  he  was  coming  straight  to  town  by  the  train. 
The  truth  isn't  in  him.  You  mustn't  suppose,"  she 
turned  rather  fiercely  to  Myra,  "that  I  came  to  meet  him 
with  any  idea  of  reconciliation.  That's  why  I  brought 
you  with  me.  But  people  don't  part  for  ever  in  this 
hysterical  way.  There  are  decencies  of  life.  There  are 
the  commonplace  arrangements  of  a  separation." 

She  burned  with  a  new  sense  of  wrong.  Once  more 
he  had  eluded  her.  Now,  what  she  told  Myra  was  true. 
She  wished  never  to  see  him  again. 

Blaise  Olifant  came  up  to  town,  anxious  to  be  of  serv- 
ice, and  found  her  in  this  defiant  mood. 

"It's  impossible  for  it  all  to  end  like  this,"  he  said. 
"You  are  wounded  to  the  quick.  He's  in  a  state  of  crazy 
remorse.  Time  will  soften  things.  He'll  come  to  his 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  271 

senses  and  return  and  ask  your  forgiveness,  and  you  will 
give  it." 

She  replied,  "My  dear  Blaise,  you  don't  understand. 
The  man  I  loved  and  married  doesn't  exist." 

"The  man  of  genius  exists.  Listen,"  said  he.  "After 
he  left  me,  I've  done  scarcely  anything  but  think  of  the 
two  of  you.  He  could  have  put  forward  a  case — a  very 
stong  case — but  he  didn't." 

"And  what  was  his  strong  case?"  she  asked  bitterly. 

Olifant  put  before  her  his  reasoned  apologia  for  the 
life  of  Triona.  Given  the  first  deception  practised  under 
the  obsession  of  the  little  black  book  acting  on  a  pecul- 
iarly sensitive  temperament,  the  rest  followed  remorse- 
lessly. 

"He  was  being  blackmailed  by  one  lie." 

"My  intelligence  grasps  what  you  say,"  Olivia  an- 
swered, "but  my  heart  doesn't.  You're  standing  away 
and  can  see  things  in  the  round.  I'm  in  the  middle  of 
them,  and  I  can't." 

If  she,  although  his  wife,  had  stood  away;  if  she  had 
been  dissociated  from  his  deceptions;  if  nothing  more 
had  occurred  than  the  exposure  of  the  Triona  myth,  she 
might  have  forgiven  him.  But  the  deceptions  had  been 
interwoven  with  the  sacred  threads  of  her  love;  she  could 
not  forgive  that  intimate  entanglement.  To  a  woman 
the  little  things  are  as  children,  as  the  little  ones  whose  of- 
fenders Christ  cursed  with  the  millstone  and  the  sea. 
She  had  lain  awake,  his  forgotten  wrist-watch  on  her 
arm,  picturing  him  tossed  by  the  waves  of  the  North  Sea 
in  the  execution  of  her  country's  errand.  She  had 
proudly  told  a  hundred  people  of  the  Bolshevist  gyve- 
marks  around  his  ankle.  She  had  been  moved  to  her 


272  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

depths  by  the  tragical  romance  of  the  fictitious  Vronsky. 
In  her  heart  there  had  been  hot  rebellion  against  a  For- 
eign Office  keeping  strangle-hold  on  a  heroic  servant  and 
restricting  his  freedom  of  action.  These  little  sufferings 
he  had  caused  her  she  could  not  forgive.  While  inflict- 
ing them,  he  knew  that  she  suffered. 

In  vain  did  Olifant,  unversed  in  the  psychology  of 
woman,  plead  the  cause  of  the  erratic  creature  that  was 
her  husband.  In  vain  did  he  set  out  his  honourable  and 
uncontested  record;  that  of  a  man  whose  response  to  the 
call  of  duty  was  unquestioned;  of  whose  courage  and 
endurance  she  had  received  personal  testimony;  who  had 
cheerfully  suffered  wounds,  the  hardships  of  flight 
through  Revolutionary  Russia,  the  existence  on  a  mine- 
sweeper on  perilous  seas  ending  in  the  daily  dreaded 
catastrophe;  the  record  of  a  man  who,  apart  from  his 
fraud,  had  justified  himself  as  a  queer,  imaginative 
genius,  writing  of  life  in  a  new  way,  in  a  new,  vibrating 
style  that  had  compelled  the  attention  of  the  English- 
speaking  world.  In  vain  did  he  adduce  the  boyish  charm 
of  the  man.  Olivia  sighed. 

"I  don't  know  him  as  you  see  him,"  she  said. 

"Then  what  can  I  do?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  a  despairing  head.  "Nothing,  my  dear 
Blaise."  She  rubbed  the  palm  of  one  hand  on  the  back 
of  the  other,  and  turned  her  great  dark  eyes  on  him. 
"You  can't  do  anything,  but  you've  done  something. 
You've  shown  me  how  loyal  a  man  can  be." 

He  protested  vaguely.     "My  dear  Olivia  ..." 

"It's  true,"  she  said.  "And  I'll  always  remember  it. 
And  now,  don't  let  us  ever  talk  about  this  again." 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  273 

"As  you  will,"  said  he.  "But  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

She  replied  as  she  had  done  to  Myra.  She  would  carry 
on. 

"Until  when?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She 'would  carry  on  in- 
definitely. To  act  otherwise  would  open  the  door  to 
gossip.  She  was  not  going  to  be  done  to  death  by 
slanderous  tongues.  She  rose  and  stood  before  him  in 
slim,  rigid  dignity. 

"If  I  can't  out-brave  the  world,  I'm  a  poor  thing." 

"You  stay  here,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Why  not?    Where  else  should  I  go?" 

"I  came  with  a  little  note  from  my  sister,"  said  Olifant, 
drawing  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  handing  it  to  her. 

Olivia  read  it  through.  Then  she  said,  in  a  softened 
voice: 

"You're  a  dear,  kind  friend." 

"It's  my  sister,"  he  smiled;  but  he  could  not  keep  an 
appeal  out  of  his  eyes.  "Why  shouldn't  you?"  he  asked 
suddenly.  "It  will  be  hateful  for  you  here,  for  all  your 
courage.  And  you'll  be  fighting  what?  Just  shadows, 
and  you'll  expend  all  your  strength  in  it.  What  good  will 
it  do  you  or  anybody?  You  want  rest,  real  rest,  of  body 
and  soul." 

She  met  his  eyes. 

"Do  I  look  so  woebegone?" 

"The  sight  of  you  now  is  enough  to  break  the  heart  of 
any  one  who  cares  for  you,  Olivia,"  he  said  soberly. 

"It's  merely  a  question  of  sleeplessness.  That'll  pass 
off." 


274  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"It  will  pass  off  quicker  in  the  country,"  he  urged.  "It 
will  be  a  break.  The  house  will  be  yours.  Mary  and  I, 
the  discreetest  shadows.  You  don't  know  the  self-effac- 
ing dear  that  Mary  is.  Besides,  she  is  one  of  those 
women  who  is  a  living  balm  for  the  wounded.  To  look 
at  her  is  to  draw  love  and  comforting  from  her."  He 
ventured  the  tips  of  his  fingers  on  her  slender  shoulders. 
"Do  come.  Your  old  room  shall  be  yours,  just  as  you 
left  it.  Or  the  room  I  have  always  kept  sacred." 

She  stood  by  the  fireplace,  her  arm  on  the  mantelshelf, 
looking  away  from  him. 

"Or,  if  you  like,"  he  went  on,  "we'll  clear  out — we 
only  want  a  few  days — and  give  you  back  your  old 
home  all  to  yourself." 

She  stretched  out  a  groping  hand;  he  took  it. 

"I  know  you  would,"  she  said.  "It's — it's  beautiful 
of  you.  I'm  not  surprised,  because — "  she  swayed  head 
and  shoulders  a  bit,  seeking  for  words,  her  eyes  away 
from  him,  " — because,  after  that  first  day  at  Medlow,  I 
have  never  thought  of  you  as  doing  otherwise  than  what 
was  beautiful  and  noble.  It  sounds  silly.  But  I  mean 
it." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  and  walked  away  into  the  room, 
her  back  towards  him.  He  strode  after  her. 

"That's  foolishness.  I'm  only  an  ordinary,  decent  sort 
of  man.  In  the  circumstances,  good  Lord!  I  couldn't 
do  less." 

She  faced  him  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"And  I  as  an  ordinary,  decent  woman,  couldn't  do  less 
than  what  I've  said." 

"Well?"  said  he. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  275 

They  stood  for  a  few  seconds  eye  to  eye.  A  faint 
colour  came  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  smiled. 

"Don't  suppose  I'm  not  tempted.  I  am.  But  if  I 
came,  you'd  spoil  me.  I've  got  to  fight." 

This  valiant  attitude  he  could  not  induce  her  to  aban- 
don. At  last,  with  a  pathetic  air  of  disappointment,  he 
said: 

"If  I  can  help  you  in  any  other  way,  and  you  won't 
let  me,  I  shall  be  hurt." 

"Oh,  I'll  let  you,"  she  cried  impulsively.  "You  may 
be  sure.  Who  else  is  there?" 

He  went  away  comforted.  Yet  he  did  not  return  to 
Medlow.  These  early  days,  he  argued,  were  critical. 
Anything  might  happen,  and  it  would  be  well  for  him  to 
remain  within  call. 

Of  what  the  future  held  for  her  she  did  not  think. 
Her  mind  was  concentrated  on  the  struggle  through  the 
present.  She  received  a  woman  caller  and  chattered 
over  tea  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  The  effort 
braced  her,  and  she  felt  triumphant  over  self.  She  went 
about  on  her  trivial  shopping.  She  remembered  a  fitting 
for  a  coat  and  skirt  which  she  had  resolved  to  postpone 
till  after  the  projected  motor  jaunt.  If  she  was  to  live 
in  the  world,  she  must  have  clothes  to  cover  her.  One 
morning,  therefore,  she  journeyed  to  the  dressmaker's 
in  Hanover  Street,  and,  the  fitting  over,  wandered  through 
the  square,  down  Conduit  Street  into  Bond  Street.  At 
the  corner,  she  ran  into  Lydia,  expensively  dressed, 
creamy,  serene. 

"My  dear,  you're  looking  like  a  ghost.  What  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 


276  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Jogging  on  as  usual,"  said  Olivia. 

Their  acquaintance  had  not  been  entirely  broken.  A 
few  calls  had  been  exchanged.  Once  Lydia  had  lunched 
with  Olivia  alone  in  the  Buckingham  Palace  Road.  But 
they  had  not  met  since  the  early  part  of  the  year.  They 
strolled  slowly  down  Bond  Street.  Lydia  was  full  of 
news.  Bobby  Quinton  had  married  Mrs.  Bellingham — 
a  rich  woman  twice  his  age. 

"The  way  of  the  transgressor  is  soft,"  said  Olivia. 

Mauregard  was  transferred  to  Rome.  His  idol,  the 
Russian  dancer,  had  run  off  with  Danimede,  the  fitter 
at  Luquin's.  Hadn't  Olivia  heard? 

"Where  have  you  been  living,  my  dear  child?  In  a 
tomb?  It  has  been  the  talk  of  London  for  the  past 
six  weeks.  They're  in  Paris  now,  and  they  say  she  lies 
down  on  the  floor  and  lets  the  little  beast  kick  her.  She 
likes  it.  There's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  Perhaps 
that's  why  she  left  Mauregard." 

In  her  serene,  worldly  way,  she  went  through  the 
scandalous  chronicles  of  her  galley.  She  came  at  last 
to  Edwin  Mavenna.  Olivia  remembered  Mavenna? 
She  laughed  indulgently.  Olivia  shuddered  at  the  mem- 
ory and  gripped  her  hands  tight.  Mavenna — he  mattered 
little.  A  beast  let  loose  for  a  few  moments  from  the 
darkness.  He  was  eclipsed  from  her  vision  by  the  boy- 
ish, grey-clad  figure  in  the  moonlight.  She  scarcely 
heard  Lydia's  chatter. 

"One  must  live  and  let  live,  you  know,  in  this  world. 
He  and  Sydney  are  partners  now.  I  hinted  something 
of  the  sort  at  the  time.  You  don't  mind  now,  do  you?" 

"Not  a  bit.    Why  should  I?"  said  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  277 

"That's  really  why  I've  not  asked  you  down  to  our 
place  in  Sussex.  But  if  you  don't  mind  meeting  him — 
he's  quite  a  good  sport  really." 

Olivia's  eyes  wandered  up  and  down  the  crowded  road- 
way. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  an  empty  taxi,"  she  said. 

She  had  a  sudden  horror  of  Lydia — a  horror  queerly 
mingled  with  fierce  jealousy.  Why  should  Lydia,  with 
her  gross  materialism,  be  leading  this  unruffled  existence? 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry?"  Lydia  asked  placidly. 

"I've  an  appointment  with — my  dentist." 

"We'll  get  in  here  and  wait  till  we  see  a  taxi,"  said 
Lydia. 

They  stood  in  the  recess  of  a  private  doorway,  by  the 
bow-window  of  a  print  shop. 

"You're  not  looking  well,  my  dear,"  said  Lydia  quite 
affectionately.  "Marriage  doesn't  seem  to  agree  with 
you.  What's  the  matter?" 

Olivia  flashed:     "Nothing's  the  matter." 

"How's  your  husband?" 

"Very  well." 

This  was  intolerable.  She  strained  her  eyes  for  the 
little  red  flag  of  freedom.  Then,  as  she  had  told  her 
visitor  of  a  day  or  two  before: 

"He's  gone  abroad — on  important  business." 

"And  not  taken  you  with  him?" 

"His  business  isn't  ordinary  business,"  she  said  in- 
stinctively. Then  she  recognized  she  was  covering  him 
with  his  own  cloak.  Her  pale  cheeks  flushed. 

"So  that's  it,"  said  Lydia  smiling.  "You're  a  poor 
little  grass  widow.  You  want  bucking  up,  my  dear.  A 


278  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

bit  01  old  times.  Come  and  do  a  dinner  and  a  theatre 
with  us.  Sydney  would  love  to  see  you  again.  We'll 
steer  clear  of  naughty  old  Mavenna " 

She  had  to  stop;  for  Olivia  had  rushed  across  the 
pavement  and  was  holding  up  her  little  embroidered  bag 
at  arm's  length,  and  the  Heaven-sent  taxi  was  drawing 
up  to  the  kerb. 

Lydia  followed  her  and  stood  while  she  entered  the 
cab. 

"You'll  come,  won't  you,  dear?" 

"I'll  telephone,"  said  Olivia.  She  put  out  a  hand. 
"Good-bye.  It  has  been  so  pleasant  seeing  you  again." 

Lydia  shook  hands  and  smiled  in  her  prosperous,  con- 
tented way.  Then  she  said: 

"Where  shall  he  drive  to?" 

Olivia  had  not  given  the  matter  a  thought.  She  re- 
flected swiftly.  If  she  said  "Home,"  Lydia  would  sus- 
pect her  eagerness  to  escape.  After  all,  she  didn't  want 
to  hurt  Lydia's  feelings.  She  cried  at  random: 

"Maryborough  Road,  St.  John's  Wood." 

"What  a  funny  place  for  a  dentist  to  live,"  said  Lydia. 

Anyhow,  it  was  over.  She  was  alone  in  the  taxi,  which 
was  proceeding  northwards  up  Bond  Street.  Of  all 
people  in  the  world  Lydia  was  the  one  she  least  had  de- 
sired to  meet.  Dinner  and  Revue.  Possibly  supper  and 
a  dance  afterwards!  Back  again  to  where  she  had 
started  little  over  a  year  ago.  She  suddenly  became 
aware  of  herself  shrieking  with  laughter.  In  horror,  she 
stopped  short,  and  felt  a  clattering  shock  all  through  her 
frame,  like  a  car  going  at  high  speed  when,  at  the  in- 
stant of  danger,  all  the  brakes  are  suddenly  applied.  She 
lay  back  on  the  cushions,  panting.  Her  brow  was  moist. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  279 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  found  a  wisp  of  hair  sticking  to 
her  temples. 

The  cab  went  on.  Where  was  she?  Where  was  she 
going?  She  looked  out  of  the  window  and  recognized 
Regent's  Park.  Then  she  remembered  her  wildly- 
given  destination.  She  put  her  head  through  the  win- 
dow. 

"I've  changed  my  mind/'  she  said  to  the  driver.  "Go 
to  Buckingham  Palace  Mansions." 

The  next  morning  came  a  letter  from  Lydia  on  expen- 
sive primrose  note-paper.  Would  Friday  be  convenient? 
Sydney  and  herself  would  call  for  her  at  seven.  There 
was  a  postscript: 

"I  hope  the  St.  John's  Wood  dentist  didn't  hurt  you  too 
much." 

It  gave  her  an  idea.     She  replied: 

"So  sorry.  The  St.  John's  Wood  dentist  has  made 
it  impossible  for  me  to  appear  in  public  for  at  least  a 
month." 

She  checked  an  impulse  of  laughter.  She  must  keep 
hold  on  herself. 

Olifant  came  in  the  afternoon.  She  told  him  of  a 
communication  she  had  received  from  her  bank  to  the 
effect  that  Alexis  had  placed  a  large  sum  of  money  to  her 
account.  But  she  did  not  tell  him  of  her  meeting  with 
Lydia. 

"What's  to  be  done  with  the  money?  I  don't  want  it. 
It  had  better  be  retransferred." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  Olifant. 

He  came  back  next  morning.  He  had  seen  the  man- 
ager of  Triona's  bank.  Nothing  could  be  done.  Alexis 


280  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

had  drawn  out  his  balance  in  cash  and  closed  his  ac- 
count. 

"Let  things  be — at  any  rate  for  the  present,"  Olifant 
counselled. 

When  he  took  his  leave,  he  said,  looking  down  on  her 
from  his  lean  height: 

"I  do  wish  you  would  come  to  Medlow." 

She  knew  that  she  was  ill.  She  knew  that  she  was 
looking  ill.  But  her  little  frame  shook  with  an  impatient 
movement. 

"I'm  going  to  stick  it,  Blaise.  I'm  going  to  stick  it 
if  I  die  for  it." 

"It's  magnificent,  but  it  isn't  war — or  anything  else," 
said  he. 

Then  came  Rowington.  The  last  straw.  The  last 
straw,  in  the  guise  of  an  anxious,  kindly,  gold-spectacled, 
clean-shaven,  florid-faced  philanthropist.  First  he  had 
asked  over  the  telephone  for  Triona's  address.  An  ur- 
gent matter.  Olivia  replied  that  his  address  was  secret. 
Would  she  kindly  forward  a  letter?  She  replied  that 
none  of  her  husband's  letters  were  to  be  forwarded. 
Would  Mrs.  Triona  see  him,  then?  He  would  wait  on 
her  at  any  time  convenient  to  her.  She  fixed  the  hour. 
He  came  on  the  stroke. 

Olivia,  her  heart  cold,  her  brain  numbed  by  a  hun- 
dred apprehensions,  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Myra  announced  him.  Olivia  rose. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Triona,"  said  he,  emphasizing  the  con- 
ventional hand-shake  by  laying  his  hand  over  hers  and 
holding  it,  "where  is  that  wonderful  husband  of  yours?" 

"He's  gone  abroad,"  said  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  281 

"He  must  come  back,"  said  Rowington. 

"He  has  gone  away  for  a  long  time  on  important 
business,"  said  Olivia,  parrot-wise. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  chair.     They  sat  down. 

"I  gathered  something  of  the  sort  from  his  letter.  Has 
he  told  you  of  certain  dispositions?" 

She  fenced.     "I  don't  quite  follow  you." 

"This  letter ?" 

He  handed  her  the  letter  of  instructions  with  regard  to 
payment  of  royalties  which  he  had  received  from  Triona. 
She  glanced  through  it. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said. 

He  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  I'm  glad  you  know.  I 
had  a  sort  of  idea — anyhow,  no  matter  how  important  his 
business  is,  it's  essential  that  he  should  come  back  at 
once." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

But  she  had  a  sickening  prescience  of  the  answer.  The 
kindly  gentleman  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"It's  just  .a  business  complication,  my  dear  Mrs.  Tri- 
ona," he  said. 

She  rose.    He  too,  courteously. 

"Is  it  to  do  with  anything  that  happened  on  the  night 
of  your  dinner-party?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"Colonel  Onslow  and  Captain  Wedderburn?" 

He  met  her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"They've  come  to  you  with  all  sorts  of  lies  about 
Alexis." 

"I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life  not  to  wound  you, 
Mrs.  Triona,"  he  said,  in  great  distress.  "I  didn't  sleep 


282  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

a  wink  last  night.  My  honour  as  a  publisher  is  involved. 
But  let  that  pass.  I'm  thinking  more  of  you.  You  only 
can  help  me — and  your  husband.  These  two  gentlemen 
have  come  to  me  with  a  challenge.  Your  husband's  good 
faith.  They  ask  'Is  Through  Blood  and  Snow  a  bona- 
fide  personal  record?" 

"It  is,"  said  Olivia,  with  her  back  to  the  wall. 

"He'll  have 'to  prove  it." 

"He  will,"  said  Olivia  proudly.  "What  do  they  pro- 
pose to  do?" 

"Have  the  whole  thing  cleared  up  in  public — in  the 
Press.  My  dear  Mrs.  Triona,"  he  said  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' hesitation,  "don't  you  see  the  false  position  I'm  in? 
This  letter  I've  shown  you — it  looks  like  running  away 
— forgive  me  if  I  wound  you.  But  on  the  face  of  it,  it 
does.  I  daren't  tell  them.  But  of  course,  if  Mr.  Triona 
comes  back,  he'll  be  able  to  give  all  the  explanation  in  the 
world.  I  haven't  the  remotest  doubt  of  it — not  the 
remotest  doubt.  So,  whatever  his  business  is,  you  must 
recall  him.  You  see  the  importance?" 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Olivia  tonelessly. 

"So  will  you  write  and  tell  him  this?" 

The  truth  had  to  come  out.     She  said: 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  I  can't 
communicate  with  him." 

She  hated  the  look  of  incredulous  surmise  on  Row- 
ington's  face.  "As  soon  as  I  can,  I'll  let  him  know." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Rowington.  "You  must.  You  see, 
don't  you,  that  both  Onslow  and  Wedderburn  feel  it  to 
be  their  public  duty." 

"But  they're  both  men  of  decent  feeling,"  said  Olivia. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  283 

"They  wouldn't  attack  a  man  when  they  knew  he  wasn't 
here  to  defend  himself." 

"I  hope  not,  my  dear  Mrs.  Triona,"  said  Rowington. 
"I  sincerely  hope  not.  I'll  see  them  again.  Indeed,  I 
tried  to  put  them  off  the  whole  thing.  I  did  my  best." 

"What's  the  exact  charge  they  make  against  my  hus- 
band?" 

To  her  utmost  power  she  would  defend  him.  Let  her 
know  facts. 

He  explained.  There  was  a  mysterious  period  of  ten 
months.  Captain  Wedderburn  asserted  that  for  four  of 
those  months  her  husband  was  with  the  Armoured  Col- 
umn, and  for  the  remaining  six  he  lay  wounded  in  a 
Russian  hospital.  Colonel  Onslow  maintained  that  those 
ten  months — he  had  his  dates  exact — are  covered  in  the 
book  by  Alexis  Triona's  adventures  in  Farthest  Russia 
— and  that  these  adventures  are  identical  with  those 
of  another  man  who  related  them  to  him  in  person. 

"That's  definite,  at  any  rate,"  said  Olivia.  "But  it's 
a  monstrous  absurdity  all  the  same.  My  husband  denied 
the  Russian  hospital  in  my  presence.  You  can  tell  these 
gentlemen  that  what  they  propose  to  do  is  infamous — es- 
pecially when  they  learn  he  is  not  here.  Will  you  give 
them  my  message?  To  hit  a  man  behind  his  back  is  not 
English." 

Rowington  saw  burning  eyes  in  a  dead  white  face,  and  a 
slim,  dark  figure  drawn  up  tragically  tense.  He  went 
home  miserably  with  this  picture  in  his  mind.  For  all 
her  bravery  she  had  not  restored  his  drooping  faith  in 
Triona. 

And  Olivia  sat,  when  he  had  left  her,  staring  at  public 


284  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

disgrace.  Against  that  she  could  not  fight.  The  man 
she  had  loved  was  a  shadow,  a  non-existent  thing;  but 
she  bore  his  name.  She  had  sworn  to  keep  bright  the 
honour  of  the  name  before  the  world.  And  now  the 
world  would  sweep  it  into  the  dustbin  of  ignominy.  A 
maddening  sense  of  helplessness,  growing  into  a  great 
terror,  got  possession  of  her. 

The  next  morning,  when  Myra  brought  in  her  letters, 
she  felt  ill  and  feverish  after  a  restless  night.  One  of  the 
envelopes  bore  Triona's  familiar  handwriting.  She  seized 
it  eagerly.  It  would  give  some  address,  so  that  she 
could  summon  him 'back  to  make  a  fight  for  his  honour. 
But  there  was  no  address.  She  read  it  through,  and  then 
broke  into  shrill  harsh  laughter. 

"He  says  he's  going  out  this  morning  to  fight  for  the 
sacred  cause  of  Poland." 

Myra,  who  was  pottering  about  the  room,  turned  on  her 
sharply.  As  soon  as  Olivia  was  quieter,  she  sent  for  the 
doctor.  Later  in  the  day,  there  came  a  nurse,  and  Myra 
was  banished  most  of  the  day  from  the  beloved  bed- 
side. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  next  morning  no  corre- 
spondence or  morning  papers  were  brought  into  Olivia's 
room.  And  that  is  why  Myra,  who  preferred  the  chatty 
paragraphs  to  leaders  and  political  news,  said  nothing 
to  her  mistress  of  a  paragraph  stuck  away  in  the  corner 
of  the  paper.  It  was  only  a  few  lines — issued  by  the 
police — though  Myra  did  not  know  that — to  the  effect  that 
a  well-dressed  man  with  papers  on  him  giving  the  name 
of  John  Briggs  had  been  knocked  over  by  a  motor- 
lorry  the  previous  morning  and  had  been  taken  uncon- 
scious to  University  College  Hospital. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MYRA  stood  by  the  screened-off  bed  in  the  long 
ward  and  looked  unemotionally  at  the  uncon- 
scious man. 

"Yes,"  she  said  to  the  Sister,  "that  is  Mr.  John  Briggs. 
I  know  him  intimately." 

"Are  you  a  relative?" 

"He  has  no  relatives." 

"You  see,  in  a  case  like  this,  we  have  to  report  to  the 
police.  It's  their  business  to  find  somebody  responsible." 

"I'm  responsible,"  said  Myra. 

The  Sister  looked  at  the  tall,  lean  woman,  so  dignified  in 
her  well-made  iron  grey  coat  and  skirt  and  plain  black 
hat,  and  was  puzzled  to  place  her  socially.  She  might  be 
an  austere  lady  of  high  degree;  on  the  other  hand,  she 
spoke  with  an  odd,  country  accent.  It  was,  at  any  rate, 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  to  one  that  she  was  a  genu- 
ine friend  of  the  patient;  but  there  was  the  remaining  one 
in  a  thousand  that  she  belonged  to  the  race  of  cranks 
not  unfamiliar  in  London  hospitals. 

"It's  only  a  matter  of  formality,"  said  the  Sister,  "but 
one  must  have  some  proof." 

So  Myra  drew  her  bow  at  a  venture. 

"Mr.  Briggs  was  going  abroad — to  Poland." 

The  sister  smiled  with  relief.  In  his  pocket-book  had 
been  found  railway  tickets  and  unsealed  letters  to  people 
in  Prague  and  Warsaw.  So  long  as  they  found  some  one 
responsible,  it  was  all  that  mattered.  She  proceeded  to 

285 


286  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

explain  the  case.  A  broken  thigh,  broken  ribs,  and  severe 
concussion.  Possibly  internal  injuries.  The  surgeons 
could  not  tell,  yet. 

Myra  scanned  again  the  peaked  bit  of  face  beneath  the 
headbandages,  which  was  all  that  was  visible  of  Alexis 
Triona,  and  asked: 

"Can  he  live?" 

"It's  doubtful,"  said  the  Sister. 

They  moved  away  to  the  centre  of  the  ward  aisle.  The 
Sister  talked  of  the  accident,  of  the  patient's  position. 

"He's  a  rich  man,"  said  Myra. 

"So  we  gathered,"  replied  the  Sister,  who  had  in  her 
keeping  his  pocket-book,  stuffed  with  English  bank-notes 
of  high  value. 

"If  anything  should  happen,  you  of  course  will  let  me 
know." 

"Your  name  and  address?" 

She  gave  it.    The  sister  wrote  it  down  on  a  note-pad. 

"Could  I  see  him  just  once  more?"  Myra  asked. 

"Certainly." 

They  went  round  the  screen.  Myra  stood  looking 
down  on  the  bit  she  could  see  of  the  man  who  had 
brought  catastrophe  on  her  beloved.  The  shock  of  rec- 
ognition, although  expected,  aroused  her  pity.  Then  her 
heart  surged  with  fierce  resentment.  Serve  the  lying 
rascal  right.  Why  hadn't  the  motor-lorry  finished  the 
business  right  away?  For  all  her  cultivated  impassivity 
of  demeanour,  she  stood  trembling  by  the  bedside, 
scarcely  knowing  whether  she  wished  him  to  die  or  live. 
Had  he  crossed  her  path  unrelated  to  Olivia,  she  would 
have  succumbed  to  his  boyish  charm.  He  had  ever  been 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  287 

courteous,  grasping  with  his  subtle  tact  the  nature  of  the 
bond  between  her  mistress  and  herself.  So  she  half- 
loved,  half-loathed  him.  And  yet,  all  this  considered,  it 
would  be  better  for  Olivia  and  for  himself  if  he  were  to  die. 
She  glanced  swiftly  around.  The  Sister  had  been  called 
away  for  a  second.  She  was  alone  behind  the  screen. 
She  knew  that  if  she  could  take  that  bandaged  head 
in  her  gloved  hands  and  shake  it,  he  would  die,  and  Olivia 
would  be  free.  She  shivered  at  the  extraordinary  tempta- 
tion. Then  reaction  came  and  sped  her  from  his  side. 

She  met  the  Sister. 

"Can  I  come  again  to  see  how  he  is  getting  on?" 

"By  all  means." 

"I  shouldn't  like  him  to  die,"  said  Myra. 

Said  the  Sister,  somewhat  mystified  at  this  negative 
pronouncement: 

"You  may  be  sure  we'll  do  all  we  can." 

"I  know,"  said  Myra. 

Of  these  proceedings,  and  of  these  conflicting  emotions, 
she  said  nothing  to  Olivia.  Nor  did  she  say  anything  of 
subsequent  visits  to  the  hospital  where  Triona  still  lay 
unconscious. 

In  a  short  time  Olivia  recovered  sufficiently  to  dispense 
with  the  nurse.  The  doctor  prescribed  change  of  air. 
Olifant  once  more  suggested  Medlow,  and  this  time  she 
yielded.  But  on  the  afternoon  before  her  departure, 
while  they  were  packing,  she  had  a  strange  conversation 
with  Myra. 

She  held  in  her  hand,  uncertain  whether  to  burn  it,  the 
last  wild  letter  of  Alexis. 


288  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I'm  glad  he's  gone  to  Poland,"  she  said  reflectively. 

"Why?"  asked  Myra,  not  looking  up  from  the  trunk 
by  which  she  was  kneeling. 

"It's  a  man's  work,  after  all,"  said  Olivia. 

"So's  digging  potatoes." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,  said  Olivia. 

She  tore  up  the  letter  and  threw  the  fragments  into  the 
fire. 

"What  a  hell  marriage  can  be." 

"It  can,"  said  Myra. 

"You're  lucky.     You've  escaped." 

"Have  I?"  asked  Myra  intent  on  the  packing  of  under- 
wear. 

At  her  tone  Olivia  started.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

Myra  looked  up,  sitting  back  on  her  heels. 

"Do  you  suppose,  dearie,  you're  the  only  woman  in 
trouble  in  the  world?" 

"Olivia  moved  a  step  towards  her. 

"Are  you  too  in  trouble,  Myra?" 

"I've  been  in  trouble  for  the  last  twenty  years,  ever 
since  I  left  your  mother's  house  to  be  married  to  him." 

Olivia  stared  at  her  open-mouthed,  lost  in  amazement. 
This  prim,  puritanical,  predestined  spinster  of  a  Myra 

"You — married  ?  " 

She  swerved  back  into  a  chair,  reeling  ever  so  little 
under  this  new  shock.  If  there  had  been  one  indubitable, 
solid  fact  in  her  world,  one  that  had  stood  out  absolute 
during  all  the  disillusions  of  the  past  year,  it  was  Myra's 
implacable  spinsterhood.  Why,  she  had  seen  Myra 
every  day  of  her  life,  ever  since  she  could  remember, 
except  for  the  annual  holiday.  Yes.  Those  holidays, 
always  a  subject  for  jest  with  her  father  and  brothers 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  289 

when  they  were  alive.  No  one  had  known  whither  she 
had  gone,  or  when  she  had  emerged  on  her  reappearance. 
She  had  never  given  an  address — so  far  as  Olivia  knew. 
And  yet  her  plunge  into  the  unknown  had  received  the  un- 
questioned acceptance  of  the  family.  Only  last  Novem- 
ber she  had  gone  in  her  mysterious  way,  taking,  however, 
only  a  fortnight  instead  of  her  customary  month.  Olivia, 
Heaven  knew  why,  had  formed  the  careless  impression 
that  she  had  betaken  herself  to  some  tabby-like  Home 
for  religious  incurables,  run  by  her  dissenting  organiza- 
tion. And  all  this  time,  tabby-like  in  another  sense, 
she  had  been  stealing  back  to  her  husband.  Where  was 
Truth  in  the  world?  She  repeated  mechanically: 

"You — married?" 

Myra  rose  stiffly,  her  joints  creaking,  and  stood  before 
her  mistress,  and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Olivia  saw  a  gleam  of  light  in  the  elderly  woman's  ex- 
pressionless pale  blue  eyes. 

"Yes,  I'm  married.  Before  the  end  of  my  honeymoon, 
I  found  he  wasn't  in  his  right  mind.  I  had  to  shut  him 
up,  and  come  back  to  your  mother.  He's  alive  still,  in 
the  County  Asylum.  I  go  to  see  him  every  year." 

In  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  Olivia  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
held  out  both  her  arms. 

"Myra — my  dear  old  Myra " 

Myra  suffered  the  young  embrace,  and  then  gently  dis- 
engaged herself. 

"There — there "  she  said. 

"Why  have  you  never  told  me?" 

"Would  it  have  done  you  any  good?" 

"It  would  have  made  me  much  more  thoughtful  and 
considerate." 


290  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I've  never  wanted  thought  or  consideration,"  said 
Myra.  "You  have.  So  I  say — would  it  have  done  you 
any  good?  Not  a  ha'p'orth.  I've  been  much  more  use 
to  you  as  I  am.  If  you  want  to  serve  people,  don't  go 
and  throw  your  private  life  down  their  throats.  It  chokes 
them.  You  may  think  it  won't — but  it  does." 

"But  why,"  asked  Olivia  with  moisj  eyes.  "Why 
should  you  want  to  serve  me  like  that — your  devotion  all 
these  years?" 

"My  duty,"  said  Myra.  "I  told  you  something  of  the 
sort  a  while  ago.  What's  the  good  of  repeating  things? 
Besides,  there  was  your  mother " 

"Did  mother  know?" 

Myra  nodded.  "She  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  be 
married.  I  was  young  then,  and  afraid.  Madam  took1 
me  out  of  an  orphanage,  and  I  thought  I  was  bound  for 
life.  ...  He  came  to  Medlow  to  do  thatching.  That's 
how  I  met  him.  His  father,  one  of  a  large  family,  had 
come  from  Norfolk  to  settle  in  the  West.  The  Norfolk 
thatchers  are  known  all  over  England.  It  goes  down  from 
father  to  son.  His  family  had  been  thatchers  in  the 
same  village  since  the  Norman  Conquest.  He  was  a  fine, 
upstanding  man,  and  in  his  way  an  aristocrat — different 
from  the  butcher's  boys  and  baker's  men  that  came  to 
the  back  door.  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart.  He  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  I  said  'Yes.'  We  arranged  it  should 
be  for  my  next  holiday.  Up  to  then,  I  had  spent  my 
holiday  at  a  seaside  place  connected  with  the  orphanage. 
One  paid  a  trifle.  Instead  of  going  there,  I  went  to  his 
home.  It  was  only  when  the  trouble  came  that  I  wrote 
to  your  mother.  She  said  the  fewer  people  who  knew,  the 
better.  I  came  back  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  291 

Whether  she  told  Mr.  Gale  or  not,  I  don't  know.  I 
don't  think  she  did.  There  was  a  baby — but,  thank 
God,  it  was  born  dead.  Your  mother  arranged  it  all, 
so  that  no  one  should  be  the  wiser.  You  yourself  were 
the  tiniest  tot.  Perhaps  now  you  see  why  I  have  a  duty 
towards  the  daughter  of  an  angel  from  Heaven." 

"And  all  my  life "  Olivia  began,  but  Myra  inter- 
rupted her  unemotionally. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  any  of  this,  because,  as  I  said,  it  could 
do  you  no  good.  And  it's  your  good  I've  lived  for.  One 
must  have  something  to  live  for,  anyway.  Some  folks 
live  for  food,  other  folks  live  for  religion.  I'd  have  lived 
for  religion  if  it  wasn't  for  you.  I've  struggled  and 
prayed  to  find  the  Way.  Often  it  has  been  a  question 
of  you  and  Jesus  Christ  who  has  called  me  to  forsake  the 
vain  affections  of  this  world.  And  I've  chosen  you.  I 
may  be  damned  in  Hell  for  it,  but  I  don't  care." 

She  went  on  her  knees  again  by  the  trunk,  and  con- 
tinued to  pack  dainty  underwear. 

"I've  told  you  now,  because  it  may  do  you  good  to  see 
that  you're  not  the  only  married  woman  in  trouble.  I'd 
thank  you,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  "to  leave  me  alone 
with  this  packing." 

And  as  Olivia,  not  daring  to  yield  the  fullness  of  her 
heart  to  this  strange,  impassive  creature,  lingered  by  the 
door,  Myra  said: 

"You'd  best  go,  dearie,  and  think  it  out.  At  any  rate, 
you  haven't  got  to  go  through  the  sorrow  of  the  baby  busi- 
ness." 

Whether  this  was  consolation  or  not,  Olivia  could  not 
decide.  If  there  had  been  a  child,  and  it  had  lived,  it 
might  have  been  a  comfort  and  a  blessing.  Nothing  in 


292  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

its  heredity  would  have  marked  it  with  a  curse.  But  still 
— it  would  have  been  a  lifelong  link  with  the  corporeal 
man  whom  she  had  not  married,  from  whom  she  shrank, 
and  whom  she  proclaimed  her  desire  never  to  see  again. 
On  the  other  hand,  Myra's  revelation  gave  her  strength 
and  restored  her  courage.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  the  hopeless  lunatic  in  the  County  Asylum,  dragging 
out  dead  years  of  life.  At  any  rate,  she  was  married  to  a 
living  man 

Her  first  days  in  Medlow  passed  like  a  dream.  The 
kindest  and  gentlest  of  women,  Mary  Woolcombe,  Oli- 
fant's  sister,  ministered  to  her  wants.  Mrs.  Woolcombe, 
too,  had  made  an  unhappy  marriage,  and  now  lived  apart 
from  her  husband,  the  depraved  Oxford  don.  Thus, 
with  her  hostess  and  Myra,  Olivia  found  herself  within 
a  little  Freemasonry  of  unsuccessful  wives.  And  one 
day,  when  she  came  to  think  of  it,  she  laughed  out  loud. 

"We  might  start  a  Home,"  she  said  to  Myra. 

It  was  only  later,  when  she  shook  off  the  strangeness  of 
the  dearly  familiar,  and  grew  strong  enough  to  venture 
out  into  the  streets  that  she  found  sense  of  perspective. 
Not  so  long  ago  had  she  set  out  on  her  Great  Adventure 
— only  eighteen  months.  Yet  in  these  she  had  gathered 
the  experience  of  eighteen  years.  .  .  . 

Save  for  Blaise  Olifant's  study,  the  house  was  little 
changed.  The  oak  settle  in  the  hall  still  showed  the 
marks  of  the  teeth  of  Barabbas,  the  bull-terrier  pup. 
The  white  pane  in  the  blue  and  red  window  of  the  bath- 
room still  accused  the  youthful  Bobby,  now  asleep  for 
ever  beneath  the  sod  of  Picardy.  Her  own  old  room, 
used  by  Mrs.  Woolcombe,  was  practically  unaltered.  She 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  293 

stared  into  it  as  she  rambled  about  the  house,  and  felt 
that  she  had  done  right  in  not  dispossessing  its  present 
occupant.  All  her  girlhood  was  contained  within  those 
four  walls,  and  she  could  not  go  back  to  it.  The  room 
would  be  haunted  by  its  inconsiderable  ghosts.  She  pre- 
ferred her  mother's  room,  which,  though  scrupulously 
kept  aired  and  dusted,  had  remained  under  lock  and  key. 
There,  if  ghosts  counted  for  aught,  would  a  spirit  per- 
vade of  exquisite  sympathy. 

As  Olifant  had  promised,  she  found  herself  in  a  strange, 
indefinable  way,  again  mistress  of  the  house,  although  she 
could  take  no  part  in  its  practical  direction.  He  had 
spoken  truth  of  his  sister,  whom  she  loved  at  first  sight. 
Mary  Woolcombe  was  plump,  rosy,  and  brown-haired, 
with  her  brother's  dark  blue  eyes.  On  their  first  evening 
leave-taking,  Olivia  had  been  impelled  to  kiss  her,  and 
had  felt  the  responsive  warmth  of  a  sisterly  bosom. 

"I  do  hope  you  feel  at  home,"  Olifant  asked  one  day 
after  lunch. 

"You  seem  like  guests,  not  hosts,"  replied  Olivia. 

"It's  dear  of  you  to  say  so,"  said  Mary  Woolcombe, 
"but  I  wish  you'd  prove  it  by  asking  your  friends  to  come 
and  see  you." 

"I  will,"  replied  Olivia. 

But  she  flushed  scarlet,  and,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone, 
she  grappled  with  realities.  And  realities  nearly  always 
have  a  nasty  element  of  the  ironical.  She  remembered 
the  first  cloud  that  swept  over  her  serene  soul  during 
the  honeymoon  bliss  of  The  Point.  They  had  discussed 
their  future  domicile.  Alexis  had  suggested  the  common- 
sense  solution — "The  Towers"  as  headquarters.  She, 
with  the  schoolgirl  stigma  of  Landsdowne  House  upon  her, 


294  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

and  possessed  by  the  bitter  memory  of  the  nose-in-the- 
air  attitude  of  the  Blair  Park  crocodile — eternal  symbol 
of  social  status — had  revolted  at  the  suggestion.  He,  the 
equal  and  companion  of  princes,  looked  on  her — and,  if 
his  last  crazy  letter  signified  anything — looked  still  on 
her,  as  the  high-born  lady — the  Princess  of  his  dreams. 
Each,  therefore,  had  deceived  the  other.  She,  the 
daughter  of  Gale  and  Trivett,  auctioneers  and  estate 
agents,  and  so,  by  the  unwritten  law,  cut  off  from  the 
gentry  of  Medlow,  had  undergone  agony  of  remorse  for 
the  sake  of  the  son  of  a  Tyneside  operative,  a  boy  be- 
fore the  mast,  a  common  chauffeur,  a  man  far  her  in- 
ferior in  the  social  scale.  No  wonder  he  could  not  under- 
stand her  hesitancies.  Her  resentment  against  him 
blazed  anew.  For  his  sake  she  had  needlessly  soiled 
her  soul  with  deceit  and  snobbery.  It  was  well  that  he 
had  passed  out  of  her  life. 

"May  I  invite  Mr.  Trivett  and  Mr.  Fenmarch  to  tea?" 
she  asked. 

Mary  Woolcombe  smiled. 

"The  house  is  yours,  dear.  That's  not  a  Spanish 
courtesy  but  an  English  fact." 

So  the  two  old  gentlemen  came,  and  Olivia  entertained 
them  in  the  dining-room,  as  she  had  done  on  the  afternoon 
of  her  emancipation.  She  sat  at  the  end  of  the  comfort- 
ably laid  table,  and  the  dusty  Fenmarch,  with  the  face 
of  an  old  moulting  badger,  drank  tea,  while,  as  before,  the 
stout,  red-gilled  Trivett  drank  whisky  and  soda  with  his 
hot  scones.  This  time,  the  latter  explained  that  the 
whisky  was  a  treat — forbidden  by  Mrs.  Trivett  at  the 
domestic  tea-table.  They  welcomed  her  back  in  the  kind- 
ness of  their  simple  hearts.  They  knew  nothing  of  her 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  295 

separation  from  Triona.  She  had  been  ill  and  come  down 
for  rest  and  change. 

"And  you  look  as  if  you  need  it,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Trivett.  "And  some  of  your  good  father's  old  port. 
There  should  still  be  a  dozen  or  two  of  Cockburn's  '70  in 
the  cellar  at  the  present  moment — unless  Major  Olifant 
has  drunk  it  all." 

Olivia  laughed,  for  it  was  humorously  meant.  Mr. 
Fenmarch  in  the  act  of  raising  his  teacup  to  his  lips,  put 
it  down  again  with  a  sigh  and  shook  his  dusty  head. 

"It  was  a  great  wine,"  he  said  with  a  look  backward 
into  the  past. 

"We'll  have  a  bottle  up,"  cried  Olivia. 

In  spite  of  polite  protests,  she  rang  for  Myra,  and  to 
Myra  she  gave  instructions.  And  presently  Myra, 
trained  from  girlhood  in  the  nice  conduct  of  wine,  ap- 
peared with  the  cob-webbed  bottle,  white  splash  upper- 
most, tenderly  tilted  in  unshaking  hands.  Trivett  took 
it  from  her  reverently  while  she  sought  corkscrew  and 
napkin  and  glasses,  and  when  she  placed  the  napkin  pad 
on  the  table,  and  Trivett  took  the  corkscrew,  Fenmarch, 
with  the  air  of  one  participating  in  a  holy  rite,  laid  both 
hands  on  the  sacred  bottle  and  watched  the  extraction 
of  the  cork  as  one  who  awaits  the  manifestation  of  the 
god.  The  brows  of  both  men  were  bent,  and  they  held 
their  breaths.  Then  the  cork  came  out  clear  and  true, 
and  the  broad  red  face  of  Trivett  was  irradiated  by  an 
all-pervading  smile.  It  faded  into  an  instant's  serious- 
ness while  he  smelled  the  cork — it  reappeared  triumphant 
as  he  held  the  corkscrew,  with  cork  impaled,  beneath 
the  nostrils  of  Fenmarch.  Fenmarch  sniffed  and  smiled 
and  bowed. 


296  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Olivia,  my  dear "  said  Trivett  with  a  gesture. 

Olivia,  understanding,  held  the  wine-glasses.  The  wine 
flowed  clear,  gold  dissolved  in  rubies — is  there  a  colour 
on  earth  like  the  the  colour  of  old  port? 

"Stop!     Only  a  sip  for  me,"  she  laughed. 

"Nonsense.  It  was  only  for  the  sake  of  her  health  that 
we  let  her  open  it — eh,  Fenmarch?" 

But  Fenmarch,  eager  on  the  pouring,  cried: 

"Don't  move  your  glass,  for  God's  sake,  Olivia.  You'll 
waste  it." 

But  Trivett,  with  a  false  air  of  chivalry,  let  her  off 
with  half  a  glass.  Fenmarch  refolded  the  napkin,  so  as  to 
give  the  temporarily  abandoned  bottle  a  higher  tilt.  The 
two  men  smelled  the  wine.  For  the  first  time  since  the 
awful  night  of  disillusion,  Olivia  felt  happy.  These  old 
dears!  It  was  like  stuffing  greedy  children  with  choco- 
lates. 

The  two  elderly  gentlemen  raised  their  glasses  and 
bowed  to  her.  Then  sipped. 

"Ah!"  said  Fenmarch. 

"H'm,"  said  Trivett,  with  the  knitted  brow  of  puzzle- 
ment. 

Then,  suddenly  the  grey,  badgery  little  man  who  had 
never  been  known  to  laugh  violently,  gave  Olivia  the 
shock  of  her  life.  He  thrust  his  chair  from  the  table 
and  smacked  his  thigh  and  exploded  in  a  high-pitched 
cackle  of  hilarity. 

"He  can't  taste  it!  He's  been  drinking  whisky!  He 
has  paralysed  his  palate.  I've  been  waiting  for  it!" 
He  beat  the  air  with  his  hands.  "Oh  Lord!  That's 
good!" 

Trivett's  fat  jowl  fell. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  297 

" "  he  gasped,  regardless  of  Olivia.     "So  I  have." 

"Moral "  cried  the  delighted  Fenmarch.  "Never 

try  to  steal  a  march  on  your  wife — it  doesn't  pay,  my 
boy.  It  doesn't  pay." 

And  he  inhaled  the  aroma  of  the  Heaven-given  wine, 
and  drank  with  the  serenity  of  the  man  who  has  never 
offended  the  high  gods. 

Olivia,  anxious  to  console,  said  to  Mr.  Trivett: 

"I'll  send  you  some  round  to-morrow." 

Trivett  spread  out  his  great  arms. 

"My  dear,  it'll  have  to  settle.  If  moved,  it  won't  be 
fit  to  drink  for  a  couple  of  months." 

Eventually  he  reconciled  himself  to  the  loss  of  the 
subtler  shades  of  flavour,  and  he  shared  with  Fenmarch 
the  drinkable  remainder  of  the  carefully  handled  bottle. 

But  it  was  not  for  this  genial  orgy  that  Olivia  had  con- 
vened the  meeting. 

"I  owe  you  two  dears  an  apology,"  she  said. 

They  protested.    An  impossibility. 

"I  do,"  she  asserted.  "The  last  time  you  were  here, 
you  gave  me  good  advice,  which  I  rejected,  like  a  little 
fool.  I  insisted  on  going  up  to  London  with  all  my  money 
tied  up  in  a  bundle,  to  seek  my  fortune." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Trivett,  "haven't  you  found  it?" 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  their  wine- 
cheered  faces  grew  serious  as  she  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something  in  confidence.  It  mustn't 
get  round  the  town — at  any  rate,  not  yet.  My  husband 
and  I  aren't  going  to  live  together  any  more." 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  said  Fenmarch. 

"So,"  she  continued,  "I'm  where  I  was  when  I  left 
you.  And  I  don't  want  any  more  adventures.  And  if 


298  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

you'd  take  back  my  bag  of  gold — there  isn't  so  much  in 
it  now — and  advise  me  what  to  do  with  it,  I  should  be 
very  grateful." 

It  had  cost  her  some  sacrifice  of  pride  to  make  this 
little  speech.  She  had  rehearsed  it;  put  it  off  and  off 
during  the  pleasant  wine-drinking.  She  had  flouted  them 
once  for  two  unimaginative  ancients,  and  now  dreaded 
the  possible  grudge  they  might  have  against  her.  "If 
you  had  only  listened  to  us,"  they  might  say,  with  ill- 
concealed  triumph.  If  they  had  done  so,  she  would  have 
accepted  it  as  punishment  for  her  overbearing  conceit 
and  for  her  snobbery.  But  they  received  her  news  with 
a  consternation  so  affectionate  and  so  genuine  that  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"You  won't  ask  me  why,"  she  said.  "It's  a  com- 
plicated story — and  painful.  But  it  has  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with — with  things  people  are  divorced  for.  I 
should  like  you  to  understand  that." 

"Then  surely,"  said  the  old  lawyer,  "as  the  usual 
barrier  to  a  reconciliation  doesn't  exist,  there  may  still 
be  hopes " 

"None,"  said  Olivia.  "My  husband  has  done  the  right 
thing.  He  has  gone  away — abroad — for  ever,  and  has 
made  it  impossible  for  me  to  find  out  his  address." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Trivett,  his  red  face  growing 
redder,  "I  don't  want  to  know  none  of  your  private  af- 
fairs— "  he  lost  hold  of  grammar  sometimes  when  deeply 
moved  " — it's  enough  for  me  that  you're  in  trouble.  I've 
known  you  ever  since  you  were  born,  and  I  loved  your 
father,  who  was  the  honestest  man  God  ever  made."  He 
stretched  out  his  great,  sunglazed  hand.  "And  so,  if 
old  Luke  Trivett's  any  good  to  you,  my  dear,  you  can 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  299 

count  on  him  as  long  as  he's  this  side  of  the  daisies." 
"And  I'm  your  good  friend,  too,"  said  Mr.  Fenmarch 
in  his  dustiest  manner. 

When  they  had  gone,  Olivia  sat  for  a  long  while  alone 
in  the  dining-room.  And  she  felt  as  though  she  had  re- 
turned to  the  strong  and  dear  realities  of  life  after  a  fever- 
ish wandering  among  shadows. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AFTER  this,  Olivia  took  up  her  life,  as  she 
thought,  in  firm  hands.  She  had  made  her  rep- 
aration to  her  old  friends.  She  joined  the  fam- 
ily party  of  the  Trivetts  at  dinner,  and  mixed  with  the 
"homely  folk"  that  assembled  around  old  John  Freke's 
tea  table.  She  lived  in  a  glow  of  contrition  for  past 
snobberies.  The  vague  story  of  her  separation  from 
Triona  which  she  had  told  to  the  two  old  men  not  suf- 
ficing Medlow  curiosity,  she  told  what  she  believed  to  be 
the  truth. 

"My  husband  has  gone  to  Poland  to  fight  against  the 
Russian  Reds." 

And  thereby  she  gave  the  impression  that  the  cause  of 
the  break  up  of  her  married  life  was  the  incurable  ad- 
venturous spirit  of  her  husband.  The  suggestion  fitted 
in  with  the  town's  idea  of  the  romance  of  her  marriage 
and  the  legendary  character  of  Alexis  Triona,  which  had 
originally  been  inspired  by  the  local  bookseller  eager  to 
sell  copies  of  Triona's  books.  She  herself,  therefore,  be- 
came invested  in  a  gossamer  garment  of  mystery,  which 
she  wore  with  becoming  grace.  Her  homecoming  was  a 
triumph. 

As  the  days  passed  and  brought  no  news  of  Alexis,  she 
grew  convinced  of  the  honesty  of  his  last  letter.  His 
real  achievements  in  the  past  confirmed  her  conviction. 
He  was  the  born  adventurer.  It  was  like  him  to  have 
sought  the  only  field  of  mad  action  open  at  that  hour 

300 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  301 

of  frantically  guarded  peace.  He  had  gone  to  Poland. 
In  her  heart  she  rejoiced.  She  saw  him  striving  to  burn 
a  past  record  and  rise,  Phoenix-like,  from  its  ashes. 

"If  he  came  back  a  Polish  General,  all  over  stars  and 
glory,"  said  Myra,  during  one  of  their  increasingly  inti- 
mate conversations,  "would  you  take  up  with  him  again?" 

Olivia  reddened.     "I  should  be  glad  for  his  sake." 

"I  don't  see  that  you're  answering  my  question,"  said 
Myra. 

"I've  told  you  once  and  for  all,"  flashed  Olivia,  "that 
I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him  as  long  as  I 
live." 

She  meant  it  with  all  that  she  knew  of  her  soul.  His 
fraud  was  unforgivable;  his  perfect  recognition  of  it  con- 
stituted his  only  merit.  In  Poland,  doing  wild  things, 
he  was  a  picturesque  and  tolerable  personage.  In  her 
immediate  neighbourhood,  he  became  once  again  a  repel- 
lent figure.  As  far  as  she  could,  she  blotted  him  out  of 
her  thoughts. 

The  threat  of  exposure  at  the  hands  of  Onslow  and 
Wedderburn  still  hung  over  her  head.  The  disgrace  of 
it  would  react  on  her  innocent  self.  The  laughter  of  the 
Lydian  galley  rang  in  her  ears.  She  guessed  the  cynical 
gossip  of  the  newer  London  world.  That  was  hateful 
enough.  She  need  never  return  to  either.  But  it  would 
follow  her  to  Medlow.  She  would  be  pitied  by  the  Tri- 
vetts  and  the  Frekes,  and  the  parents  of  the  present 
generation  of  Landsdowne  House.  They  would  wonder 
why,  in  the  face  of  the  revelations,  she  still  called  herself 
"Mrs.  Triona."  To  spring  her  plain  Mrs.  Briggsdom  on 
Medlow  she  had  not  the  courage. 

She  took  counsel  with  Blaise  Olifant.     In  his  soldier- 


302  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

scholar  protecting  way  he  seemed  a  rock  of  refuge.    He 
said: 

"Write  to  them  through  Rowington  and  ask  them  to 
hold  their  hands  until  you  can  put  them  into  communica- 
tion with  your  husband,  which  you  give  your  word  of 
honour  to  do  as  soon  as  you  learn  his  address." 

She  did  so.  The  bargain  was  accepted.  When  she  re- 
ceived Rowington's  letter,  she  danced  into  Olifant's  study, 
and,  sitting  on  the  corner  of  his  table,  flourished  it  in  his 
face. 

"Oh,  the  relief  of  it!  I  feel  ten  years  younger.  I 
was  on  the  verge  of  becoming  an  old  woman.  Now  it 
will  never  come  out." 

Olifant  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her  wist- 
fully. A  faint  flush  coloured  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
were  lit  with  the  gladness  of  hundreds  of  days  ago.  Her 
lips  were  parted,  showing  the  white,  girlish  teeth.  Sit- 
ting there,  vividly  alive,  in  the  intimate  attitude,  smiling 
on  him,  she  was  infinitely  desirable. 

"No,"  said  he.    "It  will  never  come  out." 
A  cloud  passed  over  her  face.    "Still,  one  never 
knows " 

"I  have  faith  in  Alexis,"  said  he.  "He's  a  man  of  his 
word." 

"I  think  you're  the  loyalest  creature  that  ever  lived." 

He  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  "I  would  I  were,"  said 
he. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  asked  pleasantly. 

"If  I  were,"  said  he,  his  nose  seeming  to  lengthen  over 
the  wry  smile  of  his  lips,  "if  I  were,  I  would  go  out  into 
the  world  and  not  rest  till  I  brought  him  back  to  you." 

She  slid  to  her  feet.    "With  a  barber's  basin  for  a 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  303 

helmet,  and  the  rest  of  the  equipment.  If  you  did  such 
an  idiot  thing,  I  should  hate  you.  Don't  you  understand 
that  he  has  gone  out  of  my  life  altogether?" 

"Life  is  a  long,  long  time  to  look  forward  to,  for  a 
woman  so  young  as  yourself." 

"You  mean,  I  might  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else, 
and  there  would  be  horrid  complications?"  She  laughed 
in  the  cocksureness  of  youth.  "Oh,  no,  my  dear  Blaise. 
Once  bitten,  twice  shy.  Three  times,  four  times,  all  the 
mutiplication  table  times  shy." 

Though  impelled  by  primitive  instinct,  he  could  not 
press  her  further.  He  found  himself  in  a  position  of 
poignant  absurdity,  compensated  by  the  sweetness  of  their 
daily  companionship.  Sometimes  he  wondered  how  it 
could  be  that  an  awakened  woman  like  Olivia  could  re- 
main in  calm  ignorance  of  his  love.  Yet  she  gave  never 
a  sign  of  knowledge.  She  accepted  friendship  with  full 
hands  and  gave  it  with  full  heart.  Beyond  that — noth- 
ing. From  his  sensitive  point  of  view,  it  was  all  for  the 
best.  If,  like  a  lean  spider,  he  sat  down  beside  her  and 
talked  of  love,  he  would  indubitably  frighten  Miss  Muffet 
away  from  Medlow.  Further,  she  would  hold  him  in 
detestation  for  intentions  which,  in  the  queer  circum- 
stances, had  no  chance  of  being  what  the  world  calls 
honourable.  He  therefore  put  up  with  what  he  could  get. 
The  proclamation  of  her  eternal  man-shyness  sounded 
like  her  final  word  on  her  future  existence.  So  he  came 
back  to  Rowington. 

"I'm  glad  that's  all  settled,"  said  he.  "Now  you  can 
take  up  the  threads  of  life  again." 

"What  do  you  think  I  can  make  of  them?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  sit  here  idle  all  my  life — not  here,  at  The 


304  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Towers,' "  she  laughed,  "for  I'm  not  going  to  inflict  my- 
self on  you  for  a  lifetime — but  here,  in  the  world." 

He  had  no  practical  suggestion  to  make;  but  he  spoke 
from  the  sincerity  of  his  tradition. 

"A  woman  like  you  fulfils  her  destiny  by  being  her 
best  self." 

"But  being  good  is  scarcely  an  occupation." 

He  smiled.  "I  give  it  up,  my  dear.  If  you  like,  I 
can  teach  you  geology " 

She  laughed.  Geology  had  to  do  with  dead  things. 
She  cared  not  a  hang  for  the  past.  She  wanted  to  forget 
it.  The  epoch  of  the  dynosaurus  and  the  period  of  the 
past  year  were,  save  for  a  few  hundreds  of  centuries,  con- 
temporaneous. No  past,  thank  you.  The  present  and 
the  future  for  her.  The  present  was  mere  lotus-eating; 
delightful,  but  demoralising.  It  was  the  future  that  mat- 
tered. 

"If  only  you  were  an  astrologer,  and  could  bind  me 
apprentice,"  she  said.  "No,"  she  added  after  a  pause. 
"There's  nothing  for  it.  I  must  do  something.  I  think 
I'll  go  in  for  Infant  Welfare  and  breed  bull-dogs." 

She  watched  him  as  he  laboriously  stuffed  his  pipe 
with  his  one  hand  by  means  of  a  little  winch  fixed  to  the 
refectory  table  and  lit  it  by  a  match  struck  on  a  heavy 
mat  stand;  refraining  from  helping  him,  although  all  the 
woman  in  her  longed  to  do  so,  for  she  knew  his  foibles. 
The  very  first  time  he  had  entered  the  house,  he  had  re- 
fused her  offer  of  help  with  his  Burberry.  He  needed  a 
woman  to  look  after  him;  not  a  sister;  not  a  landlady- 
lodger  friend;  a  wife,  in  fact,  whose  arm  and  hand  he 
would  accept  unquestionably,  in  lieu  of  his  own.  A  great 
pity  sprung  in  her  heart.  Why  had  no  woman  claimed 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  305 

him — a  man  stainless  in  honour,  exquisite  in  thought, 
loyal  of  heart,  and — not  the  least  qualification  for  the 
perfect  gentle  knight  in  a  woman's  eyes — soldier-like 
in  bearing?  There  was  something  missing.  That  was 
all  the  answer  she  could  give  herself.  Something  in- 
tangible. Something  magnetic,  possessed  by  the  liar 
and  scamp  who  had  been  her  husband.  She  could  live 
with  Blaise  Olifant  for  a  hundred  years  in  perfect  amity, 
in  perfect  sympathy  .  .  .  but  with  never  a  thrill. 

She  knew  well  enough  the  basis  of  sentiment  underly- 
ing his  friendship.  If  she  were  free  to  marry,  he  would 
declare  himself  in  his  restrained  and  dignified  way. 
But  with  the  barrier  of  the  living  Alexis  between  them, 
she  laughed  at  the  possibility  of  such  a  declaration.  And 
yet,  her  inward  laughter  was  tinged  with  bitterness. 
What  kind  of  a  man  was  it,  who,  loving  a  woman,  did 
not  catch  her  round  the  waist  and  swing  her  on  his  horse 
and  ride  away  with  her?  Of  course,  she  herself  would 
have  something  to  say  in  the  matter.  She  would  fight 
tooth  and  nail.  She  would  fling  the  ravisher  to  Kingdom 
Come.  But  still  her  sex  would  have  the  gratification 
of  being  madly  desired. 

In  some  such  confused  way,  she  thought;  the  horror 
of  Mavenna,  and  the  romantic  mastery  of  Alexis  arising 
in  comparison  and  contrast.  To  say  nothing  of  Bobby 
Quinton.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  how  you  can  put  up  with  me,"  she  said  when 
he  had  set  his  pipe  comfortably  going. 

"Put  up  with  you?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  and  I  are  so  different." 

He  had  some  glimmer  of  the  things  working  behind  her 
dark  eyes. 


306  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Do  you  still  want  adventures?  Medlow  is  too  dull 
for  you?" 

She  felt  guilty,  and  cried  impulsively:  "Oh,  no,  no. 
This  is  peace.  This  is  Heaven.  This  is  all  I  want." 

And  for  a  time  she  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  so. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  the  lilac  and  the  laburnum 
were  out  in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  and  the  row  of 
beeches  screening  it  from  the  east  wind  were  all  a  riot 
of  tender  green,  and  Olivia  was  sitting  with  a  book  in  the 
noon  sunshine;  and  the  book  lay  unread  on  her  lap,  for 
her  thoughts  went  back  to  a  magical  day  of  greenery  in 
Richmond  Park;  an  imperishable  memory.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  For  a  few  moments,  she  had  recaptured 
the  lost  Alexis  in  that  remembered  hour  of  blue  mist 
and  mystery.  And  now,  he  was  in  Poland.  Doing 
what? 

The  French  window  of  Olifant's  study  opened,  and  he 
came  down  the  gravelled  path  towards  her,  a  letter  in 
his  hand.  His  face  was  serious.  She  rose  to  meet 
him. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  show  you  this — but, 
perhaps  later  you  might  blame  me  if  I  didn't." 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  which  stuck  in  her  throat. 

"Alexis?" 

"Yes." 

The  eagerness  with  which  she  grasped  the  letter  brought 
a  touch  of  pain  into  his  eyes.  Surely  she  loved  the  man 
still. 

"I'm  afraid  it  gives  less  than  news  of  him,"  said  he. 

But,  already  reading  the  letter,  she  gave  no  heed  to 
his  words. 

The  letter  was  from  Warsaw,  and  it  ran: 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  307 

"SIR, 

"I  was  commissioned  by  my  friend,  Mr.  John 
Briggs,  to  communicate  with  you  should  anything  befall 
him.  Now  something  must  have  befallen  him,  because 
he  has  failed  to  keep  with  me  very  definite  engagements 
into  which  he  had  entered  with  the  utmost  good  faith 
and  enthusiasm.  He  was  to  start  on  his  journey  hither, 
to  join  the  Polish  service,  on  a  certain  day.  He  was 
furnished  with  railway  tickets  and  passports;  also,  on  the 
night  before  his  departure,  with  a  letter  to  friends  in 
Prague  where  he  was  to  await  my  coming,  and  with  a 
letter  to  friends  in  Warsaw,  in  case  political  exigencies 
should  delay  my  arrival  in  Prague.  The  Prague  letter 
has  not  been  delivered,  nor  has  Mr.  Briggs  appeared  in 
Warsaw.  Nor  have  I  received  from  him  any  explana- 
tory communication.  That  he  should  have  changed  his 
mind  at  the  last  moment  is  incredible,  as  his  more  than 
zealous  intentions  cannot  be  questioned. 

This  letter,  therefore,  has  a  double  object;  first  to  ac- 
quaint you  with  these  facts:  and  secondly  to  beg  you  of 
your  courtesy  to  give  me  any  information  you  may  possess 
as  to  the  fate  of  one  whom  I  learned  to  hold  in  affectionate 
esteem. 

Yours  faithfully, 
"PAUL  BORONOWSKI." 

Olivia  grew  very  pale.  Her  hand  shook  as  she  gave  the 
letter  back  to  Olifant. 

"Something  must  have  happened  to  him,"  he  said. 

"What  has  always  happened  to  him,"  she  replied 
bitterly.  "He  says  one  thing  and  does  another.  One 
more  senseless  extravagant  lie." 


308  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"He  was  obviously  going  to  Poland,"  said  Olifant. 

"But  he  never  started!" 

Olifant  persisted:     "How  do  you  know?" 

"What  can  one  ever  know  about  him  except  that  truth 
has  no  meaning  for  him?  If  you  suggest  that  he  has  per- 
ished by  the  way  on  a  railway  journey  between  here  and 
Prague — "  she  laughed  scornfully.  "Really,  my  dear 
Blaise,  you're  too  good  for  this  world.  If  you  caught  a 
man  with  his  hand  in  your  waistcoat  pocket,  and  he  told 
you  he  only  wanted  to  see  the  time  by  your  watch,  you'd 
believe  him!  Haven't  I  been  through  this  before?  All 
this  elaborate  preparation  for  missions  abroad  which 
never  came  off?  Didn't  he  leave  you  here  to  go  off  to 
Helsingfors,  and  John  o'  Groats  was  the  nearest  to  it  he 
got?" 

"Then  where  do  you  think  he  is  now?" 

"Anywhere,  except  in  Poland.  It  was  the  last  place 
he  had  any  intention  of  going  to." 

"He  might  have  written  you  a  false  account  of  his 
movements,"  Olifant  argued,  "but  why  should  he  have 
deceived  this  good  Polish  gentleman?" 

"It's  his  way,"  she  replied  wearily.  "Oh,  don't  you 
see?  He's  always  acting  to  himself.  He  can't  help 
leading  a  fictitious  life.  I  can  guess  the  whole  thing. 
He  goes  to  this  Mr.  Boronowski — one  of  his  stray  Russo- 
Polish  acquaintances — with  the  idea  in  his  head  of  putting 
me  off  his  scent.  Poland  still  is  romantic  and  a  terribly 
long  way  off.  He  can't  do  a  thing  simply.  He  must  do 
it  fantastically.  It's  not  enough  that  I  should  think  he 
was  going  to  Poland.  Mr.  Boronowski  must  think  so, 
too.  He  throws  his  arms  about,  persuading  himself  and 
everybody  else  that  he  is  a  Paladin  going  to  fight  for  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  309 

sacred  cause  of  an  oppressed  nationality.  When  the 
thing's  done,  and  the  letter  to  me  written,  the  curtain 
comes  down  on  the  comedy,  and  Alexis  takes  off  his  war 
paint  and  starts  off  for  Pernambuco — or  Haverstock 
Hill." 

"I  think  you're  unjust,  Olivia,"  said  Olifant. 

"And  I  think  you're  too  good  to  be  true,"  she  re- 
torted angrily,  and  she  left  him  and  went  down  the  garden 
path  into  the  house. 

In  her  room,  her  mother's  room,  with  the  old  rose 
curtains  and  Chippendale  and  water  colours,  she  rang 
the  bell.  Myra  appeared. 

"You  know  so  much  already,  Myra,"  she  said  in  her 
defiant  way,  "that  I  think  you  ought  to  know  everything. 
I've  just  heard  that  Mr.  Triona  never  went  to  Poland." 

"Indeed?"  said  Myra  impassively.  "Do  you  know 
where  he  is?" 

"No.    And  I  don't  want  to." 

"I  can't  quite  understand,"  said  Myra. 

"I  wish  you  would  take  some  interest  in  the  matter." 

"My  interest  is  your  interest.  If  you  never  want  to 
see  him  again,  what  does  it  matter  where  he  is?  Perhaps 
you're  afraid  he'll  come  back  to  you?" 

At  the  elder  woman's  suggestion,  the  fear  gripped  her 
with  dreadful  suddenness.  There  had  not  yet  been  time 
for  thought  of  such  a  possibility.  If  he  had  lied  about 
fighting  for  Polish  freedom,  what  truth  was  there  in  his 
perfervid  declaration  of  the  severance  of  his  life  from 
hers?  She  had  been  right  in  her  analysis  of  his  char- 
acter. The  curtain  down  on  whatever  comedy  he  might 
be  now  enacting,  he  would  present  himself  unexpectedly 
before  her  with  specious  explanations  of  the  past,  and  an- 


310  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

other  glittering  scenario  of  illusion.  And  with  his  re- 
appearance would  come  exposure.  She  had  pledged 
her  word  to  Rowington. 

She  seized  Myra  by  the  wrist.     "Do  you  think  he  will?" 

"You  are  afraid,"  said  Myra. 

"Yes.     Dreadfully  afraid." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  be,"  said  Myra. 

Olivia  flung  away.  "You  take  his  part,  just  like  Major 
Olifant.  Neither  of  you  seem  to  understand/*  She 
turned.  "Don't  you  see  the  horror  of  it?" 

"I've  seen  lots  of  horrors  in  my  time,"  replied  Myra 
placidly.  "But  I  shan't  see  this  one.  He's  gone  for 
good,  dearie.  You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  said  Olivia. 

It  was  nearly  lunch  time.  Myra  went  out  and  returned 
with  a  can  of  hot  water. 

"You'll  not  see  him  so  long  as  I'm  about  to  look  after 
you,"  she  remarked. 

And  Olivia  laughed  at  the  dragon  of  her  childhood. 

Some  mornings  afterwards,  Myra  came  to  her  mistress. 

"If  it's  convenient  to  you,  I  should  like  a  few  days' 
leave.  I've  had  a  letter." 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope?"  asked  Olivia,  whose 
thoughts  flew  to  the  madman  in  the  County  Asylum. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Myra.    "Can  I  go?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Olivia. 

So  Myra  packed  her  worn  valise  and  left  Medlow  by 
the  first  available  train.  But  the  Asylum  was  not  her 
destination.  The  next  day  saw  her  seeking  admittance 
to  University  College  Hospital,  London. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHEN  Triona  after  many  dim  day-dreams  and 
relapses  into  nothingness,  at  last  recovered 
consciousness,  he  found  himself  in  a  narrow 
sort  of  cubicle,  staring  upwards  at  a  mile  away  ceiling. 
He  was  tightly  bound,  body  and  legs.  He  had  a  vague 
memory  of  a  super-juggernaut  of  a  thing  killing  him; 
therefore  he  sagely  concluded  that  he  was  dead  and  this 
was  the  next  world.  It  occurred  to  him  that  the  next 
world  had  been  singularly  over-rated,  being  devoid  of 
any  interest  for  an  intelligent  being.  Later,  when  the 
familiar  figure  of  a  nurse  popped  round  the  screen,  he 
recognized,  with  some  relief,  the  old  universe.  He  was 
alive;  but  where  he  was,  he  had  no  notion. 

Only  gradually  did  he  learn  what  had  befallen  him; 
that  he  had  laid  for  weeks  unconscious;  that  he  had  a 
broken  thigh  and  crushed  ribs;  that  most  of  the  time  he 
had  hovered  between  life  and  death;  that  even  now  he 
was  a  very  sick  man  who  must  lie  quiet  and  do  exactly 
what  nurses  and  doctors  told  "him.  This  sufficed  for  a 
time,  while  his  brain  still  worked  dully.  But  soon  there 
came  a  morning  when  all  the  memories  surged  back.  He 
questioned  the  nurse: 

"When  do  you  think  I  can  start  for  Poland?" 

"Perhaps  in  six  months,"  she  replied  soothingly. 

He  groaned.     "I  want  to  go  there  now." 

"What  for?" 

"To  join  the  Polish  Army." 

3" 


312  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

She  had  nursed  through  the  war,  and  knew  that  men 
in  his  plight  were  of  no  further  use  in  armies.  Gently 
she  told  him  so.  He  stared  uncomprehensively  on  an 
empty  world. 

"What  can  I  do  when  I  leave  here?" 

"You  must  have  a  long,  long  rest,  and  do  nothing  at 
all  and  think  of  nothing  at  all." 

He  tried  to  smile  at  the  nurse's  pleasant  face.  "You've 
done  me  a  bad  turn  in  bringing  me  back  to  life,"  said  he. 

When  they  thought  him  capable  of  grappling  with  his 
personal  affairs,  they  brought  him  his  bulging  pocket- 
book,  and  bade  him  count  his  money.  He  laughed.  It 
was  quite  safe.  He  handed  back  the  roll  of  notes  into 
the  nurse's  keeping.  But  the  other  contents  of  the  case 
he  looked  at  dismally:  the  passport,  with  the  foreign 
visas;  the  railway  tickets;  the  letters  to  Prague  and  War- 
saw. What  were  the  good  of  them  now?  He  would 
never  go  to  Poland.  When  he  got  strong,  all  the  fighting 
would  be  over.  And  when  he  did  get  strong,  in  a  few 
months  or  a  year,  he  would  probably  be  lame,  with  odds 
and  ends  of  organs  gone  wrong  inside  him.  He  tried  to 
read  the  letters;  but  they  were  written  in  Polish — unin- 
telligible now  in  spite  of  his  strenuous  short  study  of  the 
language.  They  bore  a  signature  which  he  could  not 
decipher.  But  it  was  certainly  not  Boronowski.  His 
mind  soon  tired  of  the  puzzle.  What  was  the  good  of 
keeping  the  letters?  Drearily  he  tore  them  in  pieces  and 
gave  them  to  the  nurse  to  dispose  of,  when  she  brought 
him  a  meal. 

Tired  with  the  effort  he  slept.  He  awoke  to  a  sense 
of  something  final  done,  or  something  important  left  un- 
done. As  his  brain  cleared,  he  realized  that  subcon- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  313 

sciously  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  duty  to  Boronowski. 
Of  course,  he  must  be  informed  at  once  of  the  reason  for 
his  defection. 

And  then  dismay  overwhelmed  him.  He  had  no  ad- 
dress to  Boronowski.  The  only  channels  of  communica- 
tion with  him,  the  Prague  and  Warsaw  letters,  he  had 
destroyed.  A  happy  idea  struck  him.  He  toyed  with  it 
for  what  seemed  interminable  hours  until  the  nurse  came 
to  his  bedside.  He  called  for  writing  materials,  which 
were  smilingly  denied  him.  He  was  too  weak.  But 
the  nurse  would  write  a  short  letter  from  dictation.  He 
dictated  two  identic  letters,  one  to  the  Polish  Legation, 
one  to  the  Polish  Consulate,  asking  for  the  address  of 
Mr.  Paul  Boronowski,  late  of  21  Hillditch  Street,  St. 
Pancras.  By  return  of  post  came  polite  replies  from 
Legation  and  Consulate.  Both  disclaimed  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  identity  of  Mr.  Paul  Boronowski.  Legation 
and  Consulate  were  blandly  ignorant  of  the  existence  of 
their  confidential  agents.  Then  he  remembered  the  baf- 
fling signature  to  the  two  letters.  He  laughed  some- 
what bitterly.  His  life  seemed  to  be  involved  in  a  tangle 
of  false  names. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  But  it  did  matter, 
vitally.  If  ever  he  had  set  his  soul  on  a  true  thing,  he  had 
set  it  on  keeping  faith  with  Boronowski.  And  Boronow- 
ski like  the  rest  of  the  world  would  set  him  down  as  an 
impostor.  In  his  desperate  physical  weakness  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheeks;  and  so  the  nurse  found  him, 
with  one  of  the  letters  clutched  in  his  thin  hand. 

"My  only  friend  in  the  world,"  said  he. 

"Dead?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"No.    Lost." 


314  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

He  gave  her  the  letter. 

"Surely  you  have  at  least  one  more,"  she  said.    "In 
fact  I  have  written  to  her  to  tell  her  of  your  recovery." 

"Her?"    He  looked  at  the  nurse  out  of  ghastly  eyes. 

"Miss  Myra  Stebbings." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  he,  and  fainted. 

Whereat  the  nurse,  anxious  to  bring  him  comforting 
tidings  was  exceedingly  troubled.  The  shock  put  him 
back  for  two  or  three  days.  He  grew  light-headed,  and 
raved  about  a  woman  called  Olivia,  and  about  aH  sorts 
of  strange  and  incomprehensible  things.  When  he  re- 
gained his  senses  it  was  an  awakening  to  a  life  of  even 
more  terrifying  consternation  than  before.  Myra,  he 
learned,  had  called  daily  at  the  hospital — to  be  denied  ac- 
cess to  him  till  he  should  be  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  her. 
The  nurse  told  him  of  her  first  visit  the  morning  after 
the  accident  and  of  the  newspaper  paragraph  which  she 
had  chanced  to  read.  But  if  Myra  knew,  surely  Olivia 
knew.  And  Olivia,  knowing  him  to  have  been  for  weeks 
at  death's  door,  had  treated  him,  as  though  he  had  already 
passed  through  that  door  to  the  other  side.  Horror 
gripped  him.  He  questioned  the  nurse.  This  Miss  Steb- 
bings, had  she  left  no  message?  No,  she  was  a  woman  of 
few  words.  She  had  said,  in  an  unemotional  way:  "I'll 
come  in  again  to-morrow." 

"For  God's  sake  don't  let  her  see  me,"  he  cried. 

But  after  a  while  he  countermanded  the  request.  He 
would  learn  the  worst,  and  meet  steadily  the  supreme 
punishment,  the  tale  of  Olivia's  implacable  hatred. 
There  were  degrees  in  a  woman's  scorn.  Much  he  knew 
he  had  justly  incurred;  but  his  sick  frame  shuddered  at 
this  maximum  of  contempt  and  loathing.  Ill-conditioned 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  315 

dog  he  avowed  himself;  yet  to  let  him  die,  for  aught  she 
knew,  like  a  dog,  without  sign  or  word  of  interest  .  .  . 
it  transcended  thought. 

"Are  you  sure  there  has  been  no  other  lady?  Not  a 
letter  of  enquiry?  Nothing?" 

"You'll  make  yourself  bad  again,  if  you  worry  like 
that,"  said  the  nurse. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could,"  said  he;  "and  that  would 
be  the  end  of  it  all." 

In  a  large  ward  of  a  London  hospital,  nurses  have  not 
much  time  to  devote  to  the  sick  fancies  of  patients. 
More  than  enough  for  them  were  their  physical  needs. 
The  crumb  of  kindly  commonplace  was  all  that  the  nurse 
could  give  to  the  man's  hungering  soul.  He  passed  the 
day,  staring  up  at  the  mile-high  ceiling,  incurious  as  to 
what  vista  of  misery  lay  beyond  the  still  remaining 
American-cloth  covered  screen. 

From  the  shaft  of  fierce  sunshine  on  the  wall  to  his 
right,  he  gathered  that  spring  had  passed  into  early 
summer.  The  outside  world  was  a-riot  in  the  new  life  of 
wild  flowers  and  trees  and  birds  and  human  hopes  and 
loves.  Outside  that  prison  of  his — a  whitewashed  wall,  a 
screen,  a  window  behind  his  head  reaching  sky-high 
— spread  this  world  with  whose  pulsations  his  heart  had 
ever  throbbed  in  unison.  God!  How  he  had  loved  it! 
Every  leaf,  every  crested  wave,  every  patch  of  sand, 
every  stretch  of  heat,  every  rusty  horse  grazing  on  a 
common,  every  child  before  a  cottage  door,  every  vibrat- 
ing sound  or  sight  of  great  cities,  every  waste  in  regions 
of  grand  desolation,  every  man  with  sinews  or  with  pur- 
pose in  his  eyes,  every  woman  parading  the  mystery  of 
her  sex,  from  the  tow-haired,  dirt-encrusted  goose-girl  of 


316  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

a  Russian  village  to  the  wonder  of  ever  inscrutable  won- 
ders that  was  Olivia. 

In  all  his  dreams  he  inevitably  came  back  to  Olivia. 
Indeed  she  was  the  centripetal  force  of  his  longings. 
All  that  earth  held  of  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  mur- 
mur of  waters,  the  magic  of  dawn  and  the  roar  of  town 
multitudes  and  the  laughter  of  green  forests  and  the 
silence  of  frozen  steppes,  were  incorporated  in  the  woman 
of  his  adoration.  Through  her  spoke  the  voices  of  the 
infinite  universe.  And  all  that  was  visible  of  it,  the  patch 
of  sunlight  on  the  whitewashed  wall,  said: 

"She  lives  and  I,  a  reflected  glory  of  her,  live  too;  but 
even  if  you  go  hence  I  shall  only  appear  mockingly  before 
you,  on  prison  walls,  until  you  are  dead.  And  you  will 
never  find  me  on  the  blue  seas  or  the  joyous  roads  or  the 
stone-bounded,  clattering  haunts  of  mankind,  other  than 
a  meaningless  mirage,  because  the  inspired  meaning  of  it 
all  which  is  Olivia,  has  passed  from  you  for  ever- 
more." 

"Damn  you,"  said  he,  and  turned  away  his  head,  for 
he  could  not  turn  his  plaster  of  Paris  encased  body,  and 
shut  out  the  white  line  from  his  burning  eyes. 

The  next  morning  Myra  came.  He  had  been  prepared 
for  her  visit.  She  sat  on  the  cane-bottomed  chair  by  his 
bedside.  As  soon  as  the  nurse  left  them  together: 

"I'm  glad  you  are  better,  Sir,"  she  said. 

"Have  you  brought  me  any  message  from  Mrs. 
Triona?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  "You  don't  suppose  Mrs. 
Triona  knows  you  are  here?" 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  appreciate  the  mean- 
ing of  her  words. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  317 

"She  thinks  I'm  in  Poland?" 

"She  doesn't  know  you  are  here,"  said  Myra  truthfully* 
"She  doesn't  know  where  you  are." 

"Or  care?" 

"Or  care,"  said  Myra,  and  her  tone  was  flat  like  that 
of  a  Fate. 

For  a  while  he  was  silent,  accepting  the  finality  of 
Myra's  words. 

"  'You've  left  her  in  ignorance  of  my  accident?" 

"Yes,"  said  Myra.  "Haven't  you  done  the  same  since 
you've  recovered  your  wits?" 

Her  dry  logic  was  unanswerable.  Yet  a  man  does  not 
expect  logic  from  an  elderly  waiting- woman.  He  passed 
a  hand  over  his  eyes  and  held  it  there  for  a  long  time, 
while  Myra  sat  patient  and  unemotional.  He  understood 
nothing  of  her  motives.  For  the  moment  he  did  not  seek 
to  understand  them.  One  fact  alone  mattered.  Olivia 
did  not  know.  She  had  not,  with  horrible  contempt,  left 
him  to  die  like  a  dog.  By  the  thought  of  such  a  possi- 
bility he  had  wronged  her.  She  might,  with  every  reason, 
desire  never  to  set  eyes  on  him  again — but  of  active 
cruelty  he  should  have  known  her  incapable. 

Presently  he  withdrew  his  hand  and  turned  to  Myra. 
"My  head's  not  altogether  right  yet,"  he  said  half- 
apologetically. 

"I  can  quite  believe  it,"  said  Myra. 

"Why  you  should  bother  with  me,  I  don't  understand," 
he  said. 

"Neither  do  I,"  she  replied  in  her  disconcerting  way. 
"If  you  had  died  I  shouldn't  have  been  sorry.  For  her 
sake.  Now  you're  not  going  to  die,  I'm  glad.  For 
yours." 


318  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Thank  you,"  said  he  with  a  note  of  irony.  And  then 
after  a  pause: 

"How  is  your  mistress?" 

"She  is  quite  well,  sir." 

"And  happy?" 

"Begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Myra  stiffly,  "but  I've 
not  come  here  to  be  asked  questions.  I've  no  intention 
of  your  using  me  as  a  go-between." 

"It  never  entered  my  head,"  he  declared. 

"It  might,"  said  Myra.  "So  I  give  you  warning. 
Whatever  go-between-ing  I  do  will  be  to  keep  you  apart 
from  Mrs.  Triona." 

"Then  why  are  you  worrying  about  me?"  he  asked. 
,    "Because  I've  found  you  in  affliction  and  I'm  a  Chris- 
tian woman." 

Neither  of  them  understood  the  other.  He  said  sud- 
denly with  a  flash  of  the  old  fire: 

"Will  you  swear  you'll  never  tell  your  mistress  where 
I  am?"  " 

A  faint  light  flickered  in  her  pale  eyes.  "I'll  swear  if 
you  like.  But  haven't  you  taken  in  what  I've  been  tell- 
ing you  all  the  time?" 

"So  long  as  we  can  trust  each  other — that  is  all  that 
matters." 

"You  can  trust  me  all  right,"  said  Myra. 

They  talked  the  ground  over  again  for  a  while  longer. 
Then  he  grew  tired  with  the  strain,  and  the  nurse  put  an 
end  to  the  interview.  But  Myra  came  the  next  day  and 
the  day  after  that,  and  Triona  grew  to  long  for  her  visit. 
He  became  aware  of  a  crabbed  kindness  in  her  attitude 
towards  him  side  by  side  with  her  jealous  love  for  Olivia. 
She  was  anxious  for  his  welfare  within  grimly  prescribed 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  319 

limitations.  His  immediate  future  concerned  her.  What 
did  he  purpose  to  do  with  his  invalid-dom  after  his  dis- 
charge from  the  hospital?  He  himself,  at  this  stage,  had 
no  notion.  He  confided  to  her  the  despair  of  his  active 
life.  The  motor-lorry  had  wrecked  his  hopes  of  salva- 
tion. He  told  her  the  whole  Boronowski  story.  Myra 
nodded;  but  faithful  to  the  part  she  had  chosen,  she  said 
nothing  of  Boronowski's  letter  to  Major  Olifant.  Only 
by  keeping  the  lives  of  the  ill-fated  pair  in  tightly  sealed 
and  non-communicable  compartments,  could  she  be  true 
to  an  ethical  code  formulated  by  many  definite  sorrows 
and  many  vague,  but  none  the  less  poignant,  spiritual  con- 
flicts. 

"It's  funny,"  said  he,  "that  you're  the  only  human  be- 
ing I  should  know  in  the  world." 

Her  intuition  skipped  the  gap  of  demonstration  of  so 
extraordinary  a  pronouncement,  and  followed  his  flight 
into  the  Unknown. 

"It  might  be  luck  for  you,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  wistfully  on  her. 

"Why?" 

He  hung  on  her  answer  which  she  took  some  time  to 
give.  In  the  lines  on  the  pallid  face,  in  the  dull  blue  eyes 
of  this  sphinx-like  woman  so  correct  in  her  negative  at- 
tire of  black  coat  and  skirt  and  black  hat  with  just  a 
redeeming  touch  of  white,  and  on  the  thin,  compressed 
lips,  his  sick  man's  brain  seemed  to  read  his  destiny. 
She  hovered  over  him,  impressive,  baffling,  ever  about- 
to-be  oracular.  Combined  with  her  mystery  existed  the 
strange  fact  that  she  was  his  sole  link  with  the  world, 
not  only  the  great  humming  universe  of  thought  and 
action,  but  the  inner  spiritual  world  in  which  Olivia 


320  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

reigned.  He  regarded  her  with  superstitious  dread  and 
reverence;  conscious  all  the  time  of  the  comedy  of  so 
regarding  the  woman  whose  duty  had  been  to  fold  up  his 
trousers  and  set  out  his  underclothes  on  the  hot  rail  of 
the  bathroom. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  leave?"  she  asked, 
and  he  guessed  a  purpose  behind  her  question. 

"I  must  hide  until  I  am  strong  enough  to  take  up  active 
life  again." 

"Where  will  you  hide?" 

He  didn't  know.  He  had  not  thought — so  remote  did 
the  date  of  his  discharge  appear.  It  must  be  some 
secluded,  man-forgotten  spot. 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  and  you  need  a  place 
where  you'll  be  looked  after,  I'll  give  you  an  address  of 
friends  of  mine,"  said  Myra.  "You'll,  maybe,  spend  the 
rest  of  your  life  on  crutches,  and  have  all  sorts  of  things 
wrong  inside  you.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  feel  I  was 
abandoning  you.  If  you  were  broken  down  and  needed 
help,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  write  to  me,  would  you?" 

"I  most  certainly  shouldn't,"  said  Triona. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Myra.  "In  that  case  I'd  better 
give  you  the  address."  She  scribbled  it  on  the  writing  pad 
by  his  bedside.  "There.  Take  it  or  leave  it.  It's  the 
best  I  can  do." 

She  left  him  with  an  abrupt  "Good  day,  sir,"  and  took 
the  next  train  back  to  Medlow. 

"You  haven't  had  a  long  holiday,  Myra,"  Olivia 
remarked  when  she  arrived. 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  going  on  a  holiday." 

"I  hope  things  were  all  right." 

"As  right  as  they  ever  can  be,"  replied  Myra. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  321 

The  weary  weeks  of  convalescence  dragged  themselves 
out.  Myra  did  not  come  again;  and  of  course  he  had 
no  other  visitor.  He  made  casual  acquaintances  in  the 
ward;  here  and  there  an  ex-soldier  with  whom  he  could 
exchange  reminiscences  of  warfare. 

Once  a  discharged  sailor  in  the  next  bed — the  screen 
had  long  since  been  removed — recovering  from  an  opera- 
tion, spoke  to  him  of  mine-sweeping  days,  and  perils  of 
storm  and  submarine  and  he  grew  to  regard  him  as  a 
brother.  Both  regretted  the  deluging  waters  of  the  North 
Sea.  The  sailor  in  these  times  of  peace  drove  a  dust 
cart  for  the  St.  Pancras  Borough  Council.  The  wages 
were  good — but  what  a  life  for  a  seafaring  man!  He 
would  have  stuck  to  his  old  job  were  it  not  that  a  wave 
had  washed  him  down  on  the  slithery  deck  and  had 
brought  his  knee-cap  up  against  a  stanchion  and  had 
stiffened  it  out  so  that  his  career  on  board-ship  was  over. 
But  those  were  good  times,  weren't  they?  Oh  yes.  Of 
course  they  groused.  But  they  only  groused  when 
they  had  time.  Mostly  they  hadn't.  Dust-collecting 
was  an  open-air  life,  true  enough;  but  there  was  a  differ- 
ence between  the  smell  of  brine  and  the  stench  of  house 
refuse.  It  was  in  summer  that  it  made  him  sick.  The 
odours  of  the  fo'c'sle  were  not  those  of  a  hairdresser's  shop 
— nothing  smelt  so  fine,  he  declared,  as  a  hairdresser's 
shop — they  were  a  bit  thick,  but  a  man  could  go  on  deck 
and  fill  his  lungs  with  good  salt  air.  And  the  grub! 
What  an  appetite!  He  conjured  up  gargantuan  meals 
in  perilous  tempests.  Nothing  of  the  sort  now.  Every- 
thing he  ate  tasted  of  sour  potato  peelings. 

"That's  the  taste  of  everything  in  these  post-war  days," 
said  Triona,  "everything  in  life — sour  potato  peelings." 


322  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

The  dustman  reckoned  he  was  right.  In  those  old  days 
of  mine-sweeping,  a  man  had  no  anxieties.  He  had  no 
responsibilities.  He  was  happy  as  the  day  was  long. 
Now  he  was  married  and  already  had  a  couple  of  kids. 
Life  was  just  one  wearisome  worry,  a  continuous  accumu- 
lation on  the  debit  side  of  the  slate,  with  few  advantages 
on  the  credit  side  to  balance.  If  it  wasn't  the  wife  it  was 
the  boy;  if  it  wasn't  the  boy,  it  was  the  baby;  and  if  it 
wasn't  them,  it  was  his  appendix  which  had  just  been 
removed.  Whoever  heard  of  a  sailor-man  aboard  ship 
getting  appendicitis?  No,  all  them  things,  said  he,  were 
blessings  of  peace.  Besides,  how  was  he  going  to  feed 
his  family  when  they  grew  older?  And  clothes,  boots, 
schooling?  And  he  himself — limited  to  beer — and  such 

beer!  He  hadn't  tasted  a  drop  of  rum .  Was  there 

anything  like  it?  Sometimes  he  saw  it  and  smelt  it  in 
his  dreams,  but  he  always  woke  up  before  he  could  put 
his  lips  to  the  pannikin.  If  only  one  could  get  something 
to  hold  on  to  in  dreams.  He  never  had  need  to  dream  of 
rum  in  the  navy.  So  much  for  peace.  Give  him  the  good 
old  war  again. 

And  when  his  wife,  a  thin  lipped,  scraggy  blonde,  with 
a  moth-eaten  fur  stole  round  her  neck  (although  it  was 
sweltering  summer),  and  a  pallid  baby  in  her  arms  came 
to  visit  him,  and  spoke  querulously  of  domestic  affairs, 
Triona  gave  him  his  unreserved  sympathy. 

"And  it  ain't,"  said  the  ex-mariner,  "as  if  I  couldn't 
carry  on  straight  and  proper  in  civil  life.  I  wonder  how 
many  of  my  mates  are  getting  what  I'm  getting.  She 
ought  to  be  proud  of  me,  she  ought.  Instead  of  that — 
you  heard  what  she  said?" 

Triona  had  heard.     She  had  upbraided  him  for  his 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  323 

ungenteel  occupation,  considering  herself,  the  daughter 
(so  Triona  learned)  of  a  small  sweet-stuff  monger  in 
Dover,  where  they  had  met  during  his  sea-going  days, 
socially  degraded  by  her  marriage  with  a  municipal  collec- 
tor of  dust.  She  had  married  him,  by  the  by,  before  his 
present  appointment,  while  he  was  drawing  out-of-work 
pay.  Apparently  he  was  possessed  of  some  low-comedy 
histrionic  talent,  and  she  was  convinced  that  he  could 
make  his  fortune  as  a  cinema  star. 

"You  married?"  he  asked. 

Not  now,"  said  Triona. 

"You've  been  through  it,"  said  the  misogynist. 
"Women!  There  never  was  a  woman  who  knew  when 
she  was  well  off!  Oh,  Gawd!  Give  me  the  old  days  on 
the  Barracouta,  where  there  wasn't  any  thought  of  women. 
That  was  my  last  ship.  I  had  nine  months  in  her.  There 
was  Barracouta,  Annie  Sandys,  Seahorse.  .  .  ." 

He  ran  through  the  names  of  his  squadron,  forgetful,  in 
the  sudden  flush  of  reminiscence,  of  domestic  cares. 

"And  what  did  you  say  you  were  in?" 

"Vestris." 

"Of  course.  I  remember.  Torpedoed.  But  even  that 
was  better  than  this?" 

Triona  agreed,  and  the  eternal  talk  of  the  sea  went  on, 
until  the  nostalgia  for  the  wide,  free  spaces  of  the  world 
gripped  his  vitals  with  the  pains  of  hunger. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  come  out?"  asked 
the  dustman. 

"About  the  same  as  you,"  replied  Triona.  "What's 
the  good  of  a  man  with  a  game  leg?" 

The  dustman  sighed.     "You've  got  education,"  said  he. 

At  first,  aware  of  accent  and  manner  of  expression,  the 


324  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

dustman  had  taken  him  for  an  ex-officer.  Only  the 
discharge-papers  of  John  Briggs,  able-seaman,  convinced 
him  of  John  Briggs  lowly  estate.  Still,  in  the  Barracouta 
they  had  an  elderly  stoker  who  had  been  at  Cambridge 
College.  Such  a  man  might  be  his  neighbour. 

"I  ran  away  to  sea  when  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Triona. 

So  had  the  dustman.  He  waxed  more  confidential. 
His  name  was  Josh  Bunnings,  and  he  had  sailed  in  every 
conceivable  kind  of  craft  from  Alaska  to  Singapore. 
But  he  had  found  no  time  for  education.  How  did  his 
neighbour  acquire  it?  Books?  He  shook  his  head.  He 
had  been  cured  of  books  on  his  first  voyage,  when  the 
second  mate  catching  him  reading  a  tattered  manual  on 
gardening,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  washing  up  in 
the  galley,  had  kicked  and  cuffed  him  round  the  deck. 
Triona's  mind  went  back  to  his  boyhood — to  an  almost 
identical  incident.  There  was  much  in  common  between 
himself  and  Josh  Bunnings.  They  had  started  on  even 
terms.  They  had  met  on  even  terms  in  the  foul  fo'c'sles 
on  the  North  Sea.  They  were  on  even  terms,  now,  lying 
side  by  side,  lamed,  their  life  of  free  adventure  a  thing 
of  the  past.  Each  dreaded  the  future;  Josh  Bunnings 
condemned  to  cart  refuse  beneath  the  affected  nose  of 
a  shrew  of  a  wife  for  the  remainder  of  his  days;  he, 
Triona,  to  deal  with  such  refuse  as  the  world  would  leave 
him,  but  away  from  the  wife  who  abhorred  him  and  all 
his  works.  On  the  other  hand,  between  him  and  Josh 
Bunnings  lay  a  great  gulf.  He  had  made  himself  a  man 
of  wide  culture.  Josh  Bunnings  had  remained  abysmally 
ignorant.  But  Josh  Bunnings  had  lived  his  life  an  hon- 
ourable man.  If  he  told  his  story  to  Josh  Bunnings  he 
would  be  condemned  by  him,  even  as  he  had  been  con- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  325 

demned  by  his  sister  on  the  morning  of  his  mother's 
funeral.  So,  when  the  dustman,  with  another  sigh, 
harked  back  to  his  former  idea  and  said: 

"If  only  I  had  education." 

"You're  a  damned  sight  better  man  than  I  am,  with- 
out it,"  Triona  replied  bitterly. 

When  the  three  weeks'  comradeship  came  to  an  end, 
on  the  discharge  of  Josh  Bunnings,  he  found  himself  lost 
again  in  a  friendless  world.  The  neighbouring  familiar 
bed  was  occupied  by  an  ancient  man  in  the  throes  of 
some  ghastly  malady,  and  around  him  was  stretched  the 
horrible,  death-suggesting  screen.  And  behind  the  screen, 
a  week  later,  the  old  man  died.  It  was  to  relieve  the 
nervous  tension  of  this  week  that  he  began  a  correspond- 
ence with  Josh  Bunnings.  The  writing  man's  instinct 
awoke — the  mania  of  self-expression.  His  letters  to  the 
dustman,  full  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  ward,  vivid  with 
lightning  sketches  of  house-surgeons,  sisters,  nurses  and 
patients,  with  here  and  there  excursions  into  contrasting 
tempests,  storms  of  battle,  and  everywhere  touched  with 
the  magic  of  his  queer  genius,  would,  if  sent  to  his  liter- 
ary agents,  have  gained  him  a  year's  subsistence. 

Josh  Bunnings  visited  him  occasionally,  when  freed 
from  municipal,  and  escaped  from  domestic,  obligations. 
The  visits,  he  explained,  were  in  return  for  the  letters; 
for  being  no  scholar,  he  could  not  reply.  Then  one  day 
he  appeared  and  sat  on  the  chair  by  Triona's  bed,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  about  to  bring  glad  tidings.  He  was 
rather  a  heavy,  pallid,  cleanshaven  man,  with  a  curl  of 
black  hair  sweeping  down  to  his  eyebrows.  His  small 
dark  eyes  gleamed.  At  once  he  disemburdened  his  hon- 
est soul.  He  was  a  Church  of  England  man;  always  held 


326  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

with  church-going — so  did  his  wife;  it  was  the  great  bond 
of  union  between  them.  So  he  was  on  friendly  terms 
with  the  curate  of  St.  Simon's.  And  being  on  friendly 
terms  with  the  curate,  he  had  shewn  him  the  letters. 

"And,  would  you  believe  it,  mate?"  said  he.  "Would 
you  believe  it?  He  wants  to  put  them  in  print  in  the 
Parish  Magazine.  In  print!  Fancy!" 

He  slapped  his  thigh.  Triona  stared  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  laughed  out  loud  for  the  first  time  for 
many  weeks. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  the  astonished 
Bunnings. 

"It  seems  so  funny,"  said  Triona. 

"That's  what  I  thought." 

"And  a  great  honour,"  said  Triona  recovering. 

"Of  course.  Only  he  said  he  couldn't  print  'em  with- 
out your  permission." 

Triona  gave  permission,  stipulating,  however,  that  his 
name  should  not  be  used.  His  modesty  forbade  it  he 
explained.  Josh  Bunnings  went  away  delighted.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  posts  came  a  grateful  letter  from  the  cu- 
rate. In  Mr.  Briggs's  writing  he  saw  signs  of  consider- 
able literary  talent  which  he  hoped  Mr.  Briggs  would 
cultivate.  If  he  could  be  of  help  in  this  way,  he  put  his 
services  at  Mr.  Briggs's  disposal.  Triona  again  laughed, 
with  grim  amusement,  at  a  funny,  ironical  world. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  underlying  tragedy  of  this  comic 
interlude  smote  him  breathless.  Alexis  Triona  was  dead 
and  so  were  his  writings,  for  evermore.  But  the  impulse 
to  write  stirred  within  him  so  vehemently  that  even  in 
these  idle  letters  to  Josh  Bunnings  he  had  put  all  his 
vividness  of  literary  expression.  The  curate's  dim 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  327 

recognition  of  the  unusual  was  a  sign  and  a  token. 
Whatever  he  wrote  would  be  stamped  with  his  individ- 
uality and  if  published,  even  anonymously,  would  lead 
to  his  identification.  The  arresting  quality  of  his  style 
had  been  a  main  factor  in  his  success.  This  flashing 
pictorial  way  of  his  he  could  not  change.  If  he  strove 
self-consciously  to  write  sober  prose,  he  would  produce 
dull,  uninspired  stuff  that  no  man  could  read;  if  he  lost 
self -consciousness,  automatically  he  would  betray  himself. 
He  would  re-appear  in  the  Olivia-dominated  world. 
Every  book  or  article  would  dance  before  her  eyes  like 
an  ignis  fatuus,  reminding  her  maddeningly  of  his  exist- 
ence in  her  propinquity. 

An  ignis  fatuus.  At  this  point  of  his  reflection  he 
remembered  his  first  talk  with  her,  wherein  he  had  coun- 
selled her  never  to  lose  faith  in  her  Will-o '-the- Wisp, 
but  to  compel  it  to  be  her  guiding  star.  More  ironical 
laughter  from  the  high  gods!  And  yet,  why  not?  He 
wrestled  with  the  temptation.  As  he  lay,  convalescent 
on  his  back,  his  brain  clear,  the  sap  of  youth  working  in 
his  veins,  the  uncontrolled  fancies  of  the  imaginative 
writer  wove  themselves  into  shreds  of  fine  romance  and 
tapestries  of  exquisite  scenes.  Just  a  little  concentration, 
impossible  in  the  open  hospital  ward,  and  all  these  would 
blend  together  into  a  thing  of  immortal  beauty.  He 
would  find  a  publisher.  Nothing  easier.  No  name 
would  appear.  Or  else,  perhaps,  as  a  handle  for  con- 
venience sake,  he  would  sign  the  book  "Incognito."  It 
would  stir  the  hearts  of  men,  and  they  would  say:  "There 
is  but  one  man  living  who  could  do  this  and  that  is  Alexis 
Triona."  And  Olivia,  reading  it,  and  beholding  him  in 
it,  would  find  her  heart  stirred  with  the  rest,  yet  far  far 


328  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

more  deeply  than  the  rest,  and  would  seek  him  out,  obey- 
ing his  far-off  counsel,  and  believe  that,  in  his  essential 
self  and  in  his  infinite  love,  he  was  verily  her  guiding- 
star. 

But  when  the  hour  of  exaltation  had  passed  and  given 
way  to  the  dreary  commonplace,  when  the  nurse  came 
to  wash  him  like  a  child,  or  to  chatter  pleasantly  of  the 
outside  world,  the  revue  which  she  had  seen  on  her  free 
afternoon,  or  the  sentimental  novel  which  had  beguiled 
her  scanty  leisure,  he  knew  that  he  had  been  living  in  a 
land  of  dreams.  His  real  achievement  Olivia  knew,  and 
by  it  she  was  unmoved.  Myra  had  held  out  to  him  no 
chance  of  hope;  only  certainty  of  despair.  By  no  fur- 
ther achievement  could  Olivia  be  persuaded.  She  re- 
alized her  Will-o'-the-Wisp  as  what  it  really  was,  a 
miasmatic  gas  leading  her  into  quagmires.  She  would 
bitterly  resent  his  re-appearance.  It  would  be  another 
trick,  another  way  of  flaunting  before  her  under  false 
pretences.  As  well  write  to  her  now  that  he  was  a 
mangled  wreck  in  University  College  Hospital. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  was  able  to  leave  his  bed  and 
be  wheeled  about  the  ward  and  afterwards  to  hobble 
about  on  a  crutch.  But  the  injured  leg  was  just  a  bit 
shorter  than  the  other,  so  that  he  was  condemned  to  a 
perpetual  limp;  and  though  the  ribs  were  mended,  yet 
their  breakage  had  occasioned  internal  lesions  which 
would  have  to  be  watched  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  No 
more  adventures  in  wide  spaces.  No  more  tramps  to 
John  o'  Groats. 

"But  I'm  a  born  wanderer,"  he  cried  to  the  surgeon 
who  made  the  final  pronouncement.  "What  shall  I  do 
when  the  wander  fever  is  on  me?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  329 

"Fill  yourself  up  with  bromide  and  stick  leeches  on 
your  head." 

He  laughed  into  the  smiling  kindly  face,  and  was  silent 
for  a  moment. 

"I  can  drive  a  car,  I  suppose?"  he  said  after  a  while. 

"Safer  to  drive  a  horse.     You  haven't  to  crank  it  up." 

"So  I'm  going  out,  a  hopeless  crock." 

"Oh  no.  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  live, 
with  reasonable  care,  to  ninety.  You're  fit  for  light 
work.  Why  not  office  work?  An  educated  chap  like 

you By  the  way,  you  were  off  to  Poland,  if  I 

remember  rightly,  when  you  met  with  your  accident. 
What's  your  trade  or  profession?" 

"Before  the  war,  I  was  a  cosmopolitan  chauffeur,"  said 
Triona. 

"And  since?" 

"The  damnedest  fool  God  ever  made." 

The  surgeon  asked  him  no  more  questions. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FANSTEAD  is  a  little  country  town  built  on  the 
plan  of  a  sparsely  equipped  herring  bone. 
There  is  the  central  High  Street,  a  jumble  of  old 
half-timbered  houses  and  staring  modern  red-brick  build- 
ings, and  sprouted  from  it  a  series  of  lateral  roads,  lanes 
and  alleys,  dwindling  in  importance  to  the  High  Street 
tip,  and  each  petering  out  into  the  sweet  country  vague- 
ness of  hedges  and  fields.  All  save  two.  One  of  these 
ends  abruptly  at  an  inconveniently  distant  railway  sta- 
tion. The  other,  villa  bordered,  meanders  pleasantly 
for  a  mile  or  so  to  the  tiny  village  of  Pendish  where  it 
meets  at  right  angles  the  great  high  road,  and  stops  mod- 
estly, confronted  all  of  a  sudden  with  rolling  open 
country,  swelling  downs  patched  with  meadow  and  corn- 
field and  crowned  with  great  clumps  of  woodland. 

Pendish  was  too  small  even  to  have  a  church.  There 
was  a  tiny  chapel  for  the  convenience  of  Baptists.  But 
Anglicans  tramped  into  Fanstead  or  to  the  larger  village 
of  Banton-on-the-Hill,  another  mile  along  the  great  high 
road.  It  had  a  tumbled-down  inn,  the  "Whip  and 
Collar,"  and  a  straggling  row  of  thatched  cottages,  and 
a  tiny  red-brick  villa  labelled  as  the  home  of  the  County 
Police.  But  it  also  had  a  post-office,  which  was  also  a 
shop;  and  this  was  a  small,  square  two-storied  Georgian 
house  imposing  among  its  thatched  neighbours  and  main- 
taining itself  with  a  curious  air  of  dignity,  in  spite  of 
the  front  door  open  to  the  public  during  business  hours, 

330 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  331 

and  the  miscellaneous  assortment  of  sweets,  tobacco, 
tapes  and  picture  postcards  exposed  in  what  was  once  the 
dining-room  window. 

It  was  the  freehold  of  Mrs.  Pettiland,  a  widow  of 
fifty;  she  had  inherited  it  from  her  father,  a  Norfolk 
thatcher  who  had  brought  his  mystery  to  the  west  and 
practising  it  with  skill  and  saving  a  little  fortune  brought 
to  him  by  his  wife,  had  amassed  enough  to  buy  the  square 
stone  house  where  he  had  ended  his  days.  They  said 
in  the  village  that  he  had  never  recovered  from  the  shock 
occasioned  by  the  fate  of  his  son,  his  apprentice  and  later 
his  partner,  who  had  gone  raving  mad  a  week  or  two  after 
his  marriage  and  had  to  be  confined  in  the  County 
Asylum. 

Well,  the  old  man  had  slept  with  his  fathers  for  many 
years;  his  wife  had  joined  him;  the  son  still  lingered  on  in 
the  madhouse;  and  Mrs.  Pettiland,  very  much  alone  in 
the  world,  save  for  her  husband's  relatives  in  Fanstead, 
sold  stamps  and  sweets  to  the  village,  and  as  a  very  great 
favour  let  the  best  bedroom  to  an  occasional  painter  with 
unimpeachable  introductions. 

She  was  dark-haired,  fresh-coloured,  and  buxom;  she 
dressed  with  neatness,  wearing  old-fashioned  stays  that 
gave  her  a  waist  and  a  high  bust;  and  she  was  the  most 
considerable  personage  in  Pendish. 

When  she  had  received  a  letter  from  her  sister-in-law, 
Myra  Stebbings,  asking  her  as  a  favour  to  put  up  a  fool- 
ish young  man  named  Briggs  who  had  got  himself  run 
over  by  a  motor-lorry,  if  ever  he  should  act  on  her  sug- 
gestion and  come  to  Pendish,  she  considered  it  less  as  an 
introduction  than  as  a  command.  Whether  she  loved 
Myra  or  not,  she  did  not  know.  But  she  had  an  immense 


332  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

respect  for  the  dry,  grey-faced  woman  who  had  come 
every  year  to  stay  with  her,  so  that  she  could  visit  the 
brother  whom  she  had  loved,  in  the  house  of  awfulness, 
five  or  six  miles  away.  She  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of 
Myra.  Her  own  good  man  had  died  comfortably  in  his 
bed  and  had  gone  for  ever,  after  a  couple  of  years  of 
placid  content.  It  was  sad;  but  it  was  the  common  lot. 
The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away.  But  at  the 
idea  of  a  woman's  husband  being  shut  off  from  the  world 
in  the  living  tomb  of  the  County  Asylum,  she  shuddered. 
Myra  always  conveyed  to  her  the  vague  impression,  so 
impossible  to  be  formulated  by  an  uneducated  woman 
ignorant  of  traditional  reference,  of  a  human  soul  defy- 
ing the  tragedy  of  existence. 

So  when  this  Mr.  Briggs  wrote  from  the  hospital  in 
London,  she  sent  him  a  cordial  answer.  Any  friend  of 
Myra  Stebbings  was  more  than  welcome.  She  would  not 
charge  him  more  than  out-of-pocket  expenses.  For  she 
did  not  know  who  this  foolish  young  man  might  be. 
Myra  sphinx-like,  as  usual,  had  given  no  clue.  But  for 
Myra  to  ask  a  favour  was  an  unprecedented  occurrence. 
She  must  have  far  more  than  ordinary  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  the  young  fellow.  Mrs.  Pettiland's  curiosity 
was  aroused  and  she  awaited  the  arrival  of  her  new  lodger 
with  impatience. 

The  station  car  from  the  Fanstead  garage  brought 
him,  on  a  late  summer  afternoon,  with  his  brown  canvas 
kit-bag  and  suit-case  and  khaki  overcoat.  She  stood  in 
the  pedimented  doorway,  over  which  was  fixed  the 
wooden  post-office  board,  and  watched  him  descend.  He 
faced  her  for  a  moment,  and  raised  his  hat. 

"Mrs.  Pettiland?" 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  333 

She  looked  at  his  clear  cut  face,  so  boyish  in  spite  of 
whiteness  and  haggardness,  at  his  careless  brown  hair 
sweeping  over  his  temples,  at  the  lips  parted  in  a  smile, 
at  the  lithe  young  figure.  She  caught  the  significance  of 
his  uplifted  hat  and  the  pleasant  tone  of  his  voice.  In 
her  limited  category  of  values  he  would  be  only  one  thing 
— a  gentleman.  The  manners  of  an  instant  charmed  her. 

"Mr.  Briggs?" 

"I  hope  I  shan't  be  a  dreadful  nuisance  to  you,  but  I 
need  rest  and  quiet  and  Miss  Stebbings  told  me  to  come. 
And,"  he  smiled,  "What  she  says  generally  goes." 

"I  see  that  you  know  her,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pettiland 
pleasantly. 

The  luggage  taken  in,  the  cab  dismissed  she  led  him 
up  to  his  room — a  large  bed-sitting  room,  looking  over 
a  wild  garden  and  a  wide  expanse  of  rolling  downs,  with 
the  faint  white  ribbon  of  high  road  circling  in  and  out 
and  round  about  them.  His  meals,  she  informed  him, 
he  could  take  in  the  parlour  downstairs,  without  extra 
charge. 

"But  I  insist  on  paying  my  way,"  he  said.  "Unless 
my  staying  here  is  profitable  to  you,  I  can't  remain.  For 
the  present  at  least,  I  can  well  afford  it." 

So  a  modest  arrangement  was  made  and  Triona  settled 
down  in  his  new  home. 

For  some  days  he  enjoyed  the  peace  of  Pendish.  He 
had  brought  with  him  books,  ordered  from  the  hospital; 
books  which  would  take  him  long  to  read;  some  of  the 
interminable  modern  French  novels;  a  complete  Fielding 
and  Smollett;  Paradise  Lost  and  The  Faerie  Queene, 
neither  of  which  he  had  as  yet  had  time  to  go  through. 
He  spent  hours  in  the  sunny  garden  riotous  with  ingenous 


334  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

roses  and  delphinium  and  Canterbury  bells  and  burning 
red-hot  pokers  as  they  call  them  in  the  West.  Often  he 
limped  along  the  green  lanes  that  wound  between  the 
fields  up  and  down  the  downs.  Becoming  aware  that 
he  knew  nothing  of  bird-life,  he  procured  through  the 
Fanstead  bookshop  popular  works  on  British  Birds,  and 
sitting  under  a  tree  in  a  corner  of  a  meadow  would  strive 
to  identify  them  by  their  song  and  plumage  and  queer 
individual  habits.  He  talked  to  the  villagers.  He  talked 
to  Mrs.  Pettiland,  who  told  him  the  tragic  story  of  Myra 
and  the  man  in  the  County  Asylum.  Of  Myra's  doings 
all  the  year  round,  he  found  she  knew  little.  She  was 
with  her  lady  whom  she  had  served  most  of  her  life  and 
had  gone  back  with  her  to  Medlow.  Of  the  lady  herself 
Myra  never  spoke.  Mrs.  Pettiland  did  not  know 
whether  the  lady  was  married  or  not.  That  was  Myra 
Stebbings's  way.  She  gave  no  information  and  no  one 
dared  ask  her  questions. 

"She  never  even  told  me,  in  her  letter,  who  you  were, 
sir,"  she  added. 

"I  am  just  under  her  protection,"  he  smiled.  "She 
took  me  up  when  I  had  no  one  to  defend  me." 

"She's  a  curious  woman,"  sighed  Mrs.  Pettiland. 

"With  strange  tastes  in  proteges."  He  laughed.  "To 
tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Pettiland,  I  don't  quite  know 
myself  what  I  am.  But  doubtless  sooner  or  later  I'll 
do  something  to  astonish  you." 

The  yearning  to  do  this  fretted  his  secret  heart.  To 
move  about  the  summer  fields  when  the  weather  was  fine, 
to  lounge  in  an  easy-chair  over  books  in  seasons  of  rain, 
was  all  very  well  for  the  period  of  convalescence  after 
the  confinement  in  the  hospital  ward.  But  after  a  while, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  335 

when  his  muscles  regained  strength  and  the  new  blood 
coursing  through  his  veins  brought  colour  to  his  cheeks, 
he  began  to  feel  the  old  imperious  need  of  movement  and 
of  action.  Sometimes  he  went  back,  as  in  his  talks  with 
the  dustman,  to  the  idyllic  tempests  in  the  North  Sea; 
sometimes  to  the  fierce  freedom  of  the  speed  across  the 
illimitable  steppes  of  Russia;  sometimes  to  his  perilous 
escape  to  Petrograd;  sometimes  to  his  tramps  along  the 
safe  roads  of  England;  to  his  wanderings  through  the 
dangerous  by-ways  of  the  East  End.  Bitterly  he  cursed 
the  motor-lorry  that  had  knocked  him  out  of  his  Polish 
adventure.  Except  on  Olivia  he  had  never  so  set  his 
heart  on  a  thing  before.  Well,  he  shrugged  angry  shoul- 
ders. It  was  no  use  thinking  of  that.  Poland  had  gone, 
like  Olivia,  out  of  his  life.  And  when  he  came  to  think 
of  it,  so  had  everything  that  had  made  up  all  that  he  had 
known  or  conceived  of  life. 

He  closed  Tom  Jones,  and  stared  out  of  the  window  on 
the  rain-drenched  hills;  Tom  Jones,  with  his  physical 
lustiness,  his  strong  animal  bravura,  was  more  than  he 
could  bear.  Tom  Jones,  no  matter  in  what  circumstance 
he  was  placed,  had  all  the  world  before  him.  His  gay 
confidence  offended  the  lost  man.  For  he  was  lost.  Not 
a  lost  soul,  he  told  himself;  that  was  taking  an  absurd 
Byronical  view  of  the  matter.  To  pose  as  a  modern 
Manfred  would  be  contemptible.  He  went  down  to  bed- 
rock of  commonplace.  He  was  a  lost  man — a  fact  which 
was  quite  serious  enough  for  any  human  being  to  con- 
template with  dismay.  Lost,  tied  by  a  lame  leg  in  a 
deadly  little  backwater  of  the  world,  where  he  must  re- 
main till  he  died.  He  could  write,  pour  out  all  the 


336  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

fever  of  his  soul  into  words.  But  what  was  the  good, 
if  no  word  of  his  could  be  transmitted  from  this  back- 
water into  the  haunts  of  men?  Work  without  hope — a 
verse  of  Coleridge  came  vaguely  to  him — was  like  drain- 
ing nectar  through  a  sieve.  It  could  only  end  in  heart- 
break. He  stared  through  the  dripping  window-pane  at 
the  free  hills,  dim  and  hopeless  in  the  mist  of  deluge. 
Nothingness  confronted  him. 

He  wondered  whether  Myra,  with  diabolical  insight 
and  deliberate  malice,  had  not  lured  him  hither,  so  that 
she  could  hold  him  in  relentless  grip.  At  any  rate  she 
had  cast  him  into  this  prison. 

He  lay  awake  all  that  night.  The  next  morning  the 
sky  had  cleared  and  the  sun  shone  down  on  the  grate- 
fully steaming  land  of  green.  He  breakfasted  in  the  tiny 
parlour  opposite  the  shop-post-office  on  the  ground  floor. 
The  ornaments  in  it  were  those  of  long  ago.  Prints  of 
the  landing  of  the  Guards  after  the  Crimea,  of  Queen 
Victoria  and  the  Prince  Consort.  Curiously  carved  and 
polished  coconut  shells,  and  a  great  egg  on  which  a 
staring  mermaid  was  nudely  painted  stood  on  the  mantel- 
piece. On  the  chiffonier  were  calabashes,  with  gaudy 
figures  of  indigenous  Indians,  such  as  came  from  the  West 
Indies  seventy  years  ago,  and  a  model  of  a  full-rigged 
ship  under  a  glass  case,  and  a  moulting  stuffed  toucan, 
with  its  great  beak  and  yellow  and  red  plumage.  The 
late  Mr.  Pettiland's  father,  he  had  learned,  had  followed 
the  sea.  So,  beside  the  objects  on  the  crowded  mantel- 
piece and  in  front  of  palm-leaf  fans  were  sprigs  of  white 
coral  and  strings  of  strange  beads,  and  a  dumpy,  shape- 
less, wooden  Polynesian  god.  And  at  the  end  lay  a  great 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  337 

conch  shell  with  its  wide,  pink,  curving  lips,  mysterious 
and  alluring. 

He  could  scarcely  eat.  The  night  had  shaken  him. 
He  gulped  down  some  food  and  coffee,  lit  a  pipe  and 
wandered  restlessly  about  the  room,  looking  at  these 
tokens  of  the  lands  far  away  which  he  had  never  seen. 
The  coral  fascinated  him.  In  the  hospital  he  had  read 
Typee  and  Oomoo  of  Herman  Melville  in  Dent's  cheap 
collection  of  classics.  The  sight  of  the  coral  quickened 
dormant  longings.  He  took  the  great  conch-shell  in  his 
hand  wondering  at  its  beauty  of  curve  and  colour.  And 
as  he  did  so  his  mind  went  back  to  early  childhood — to 
an  old  aunt  whom  he  occasionally  was  taken  to  visit  in 
torturing  Sunday  clothes  sacrosanct  from  the  defilement 
of  jam  under  dreadful  penalties,  and  who  possessed  such 
a  shell.  He  remembered  that  the  shell  was  the  glory  that 
compensated  the  frigid  horror  of  that  house.  He  would 
hold  it  to  his  ear  and  listen  to  the  boom  of  far-off  surfs 
and  then  go  home  and  mingle  the  message  with  the  point- 
ing finger  of  Salvation  Yeo.  And  now,  grown  man, 
inured  to  adventure,  he  put  the  shell  to  his  ear,  and  the 
message  was  the  same,  vibrating  the  call  of  oceans  thun- 
dering on  distant  beaches  through  the  fibres  of  his  being. 

He  went  out  into  the  garden  and  stood  in  the  sun  and 
looked  almost  unseeingly  at  the  rolling  downs.  Sud- 
denly he  became  aware  of  the  ribbon  of  road  that  lost 
itself  not  far  away,  behind  a  bluff.  It  was  the  Great 
High  Road  that  led  eventually  to  a  great  western  port, 
where  great  ships  sailed  to  the  South  Seas.  The  Power 
seemed  to  impel  him,  as  it  had  impelled  him  as  a  boy 
to  run  away  from  home.  By  following  that  road,  he 
would  reach  the  port.  At  the  port  he  could  ship  before 


338  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

the  mast.  On  board  his  limp  would  not  matter.  For 
the  rest,  he  was  strong,  as  strong  as  a  lion,  in  spite  of  all 
pronouncements  by  the  doctors.  It  was  the  one  adven- 
ture life  left  open  to  him.  Nay  more,  the  one  chance  of 
maintaining  his  reason.  He  stood  with  hands  clenched 
staring  at  the  road,  the  sweat  beading  on  his  forehead. 

To  pack  up  belongings  and  arrive  with  genteel  suit- 
case and  kit-bag  at  the  dock-side  and  expect  to  be  taken 
on  as  an  ordinary  hand  would  be  the  act  of  an  embecile. 
He  passed  his  hand  mildly  through  his  hair  in  his  instinc- 
tive gesture.  Why  not  go  as  he  was,  a  cap  on  his  head, 
and  his  money,  all  he  had  in  the  world,  in  a  belt  (bought 
for  Poland)  round  his  waist?  It  was  escape  from 
prison.  Escape  from  Myra.  The  final  disappearance 
from  the  orbit  of  Olivia. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  maddest  thing  he  had  done  in  his 
life.  But  what  did  it  matter?  If  he  crocked  up,  he 
crocked  up.  At  least  he  could  try.  He  went  indoors 
and  in  the  parlour  found  an  old  railway  time-table. 
There  were  only  two  trains  a  day  from  Fanstead  to  the 
main-line  junction,  and  the  morning  train  had  already 
gone.  Why  should  he  not  tramp  to  the  Junction,  as  in 
the  old  days,  getting  a  lift  here  and  there  on  a  cart,  and 
know  again  the  freedom  of  the  vagabond  road? 

He  went  up  to  his  room,  put  on  his  belt  of  money  and 
good  thick  boots,  and  made  up  a  bundle  of  necessaries. 
On  his  dressing-table  he  left  a  letter  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Pettiland,  enclosing  a  month's  rent.  He  looked  round 
the  room  for  the  last  time,  as  he  had  looked  round  so 
many  in  his  life,  and  laughed.  No  books  on  this  journey. 
As  he  had  not  left  the  Tyneside  with  books  years  ago,  so 
would  he  start  now  afresh,  with  the  same  equipment.  He 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  339 

went  downstairs  with  a  light  heart,  and  called  out  to 
Mrs.  Pettiland  busy  in  her  post-office. 

"I'm  going  off  on  a  jaunt — so  don't  expect  me  till  you 
see  me." 

And  the  answer  came:  "Don't  overdo  yourself  with 
your  lame  leg." 

He  laughed  at  the  idea.  His  leg  could  bear  his  whole 
weight  to-day  without  a  twinge.  Retracing  his  steps 
down  the  passage,  he  entered  the  garden  and  left  the 
place  by  the  wicket-gate  and  struck  up  the  winding  lanes 
and  across  fields  to  the  high  road,  his  stick  and  bundle 
over  his  shoulder.  By  doing  so,  instead  of  taking  the 
road  at  the  end  of  the  village,  he  could  cut  off  a  mile. 
It  was  a  morning  of  freshness  and  inspiration.  A  cool 
breeze  sent  the  clouds  scurrying  across  the  sky  and 
rustled  the  leaves  of  the  elms  and  rippled  the  surface 
of  the  half-grown  corn.  His  spirits  rose  as  he  walked, 
somewhat  of  a  jog-trot  walk,  it  is  true,  but  that  would 
last  for  the  rest  of  his  life;  so  long  as  the  pain  had  gone 
for  ever,  all  was  well.  He  reached  the  high  road  and 
settled  down  to  his  tramp,  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  cart 
and  car  and  cottage  gardens  flaming  with  roses  and 
hollyhocks  or  restful  with  screens  of  sweet-peas.  In  the 
soft-mannered  West-country  fashion,  folks  gave  him 
"good  day"  as  he  passed.  The  road  undulated  pleas- 
antly, now  and  then  sweeping  round  the  full  bosom  of 
a  hill,  with  a  steeply  sloping  drop  of  thirty  feet  to  the 
valley.  Such  spots  were  grimly  sign-posted  for  motor- 
ists; for  at  one  of  them,  so  Mrs.  Pettiland  had  told  him, 
a  motor-lorry  during  the  war  had  slipped  over  at  night 
and  all  the  occupants  had  been  killed.  He  regarded  it 
with  a  chauffeur's  eye  and  smiled  contemptuously  at  the 


340  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

inefficiency  of  the  driver.  He  could  race  along  it  at  sixty 
miles  an  hour.  But  still,  if  you  did  go  over — there  was 
an  end  of  you. 

By  noon  he  was  hungry  and  ate  cold  meat  and  bread 
at  a  wayside  inn,  and  smoked  contentedly  afterwards  on 
the  bench  outside  and  talked  of  crops  and  licensing  laws 
with  the  landlord.  When  he  started  again  he  felt  stiff 
from  the  unaccustomed  exercise.  Walking  would  relax 
his  muscles.  Yet  he  began  to  tire.  A  while  later  he 
came  upon  a  furniture  removing  van  which  had  broken 
down.  Two  men  drew  their  heads  from  below  the  bon- 
net and  looked  at  each  other  ruefully,  and  their  speech 
was  profane.  He  asked  what  was  wrong.  They  didn't 
know.  He  threw  off  his  coat,  glad  to  get  to  an  engine 
again,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  set  it  going 
merrily.  For  two  or  three  miles  he  sat  on  the  tail-board 
between  the  two  canvas-aproned  packers,  enjoying  the 
respite.  When  they  turned  off  eventually  from  the  main 
road,  and  he  had  to  descend,  he  felt  strangely  disinclined 
to  walk.  The  Junction  was  still  a  long  way  off.  It 
would  have  been  better,  after  all,  to  wait  for  the  evening 
train  from  Fanstead.  He  was  always  starting  on  crazy 
ventures  without  counting  the  cost.  But  he  limped  on. 

The  road  went  through  a  desolate  land  of  abandoned 
quarry  and  ragged  pine  woods.  The  ascent  was  steep. 
Suddenly,  as  though  someone  had  pierced  his  leg  with  hot 
iron,  flamed  the  unmistakable  pain.  He  stood  aghast  at 
the  pronouncement  of  doom.  At  that  moment,  while  he 
hung  there  in  agony,  a  rough  figure  of  a  man  in  old  khaki 
slacks  rose  from  a  near  hollow  in  the  quarry  and, 
approaching  him,  asked  what  time  it  was.  Triona  took 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  341 

out  his  watch,  a  gold  one,  the  gift  of  Olivia.  It  was  four 
o'clock.  The  man  thanked  him  gruffly  and  returned  to 
his  stony  Bethel.  Triona  hobbled  on  a  few  more  steps. 
But  the  torture  was  too  great.  He  must  rest.  The 
pine-wood's  cool  quiet  invited  him.  He  dragged  himself 
thither  wearily,  and  sat  down,  his  back  against  the  trunk 
of  a  tree.  He  tried  to  think.  Of  course  the  simplest 
method  of  extrication  was  to  hail  any  passing  car  and 
beg  for  a  lift,  either  to  the  Junction  or  back  to  Pendish. 
Walking  was  out  of  the  question.  But  which  of  those 
ways  should  he  take?  The  weight  of  physical  tiredness 
overwhelmed  him  and  dulled  the  deciding  brain.  He  had 
set  out  at  nine  in  the  morning  and  it  was  now  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  He  had  not  realized  how  slow  his 
progress  had  been.  Yes,  he  was  exhausted  and  sleepy. 
Nothing  mattered.  He  rolled  on  his  side,  stuck  his  arm 
under  his  head  and  fell  into  a  dead  sleep.  Thirty  yards 
away,  at  varying  intervals,  motor  vehicles  flashed  by. 

He  was  dreaming  of  a  rabbit  running  across  his  throat, 
when  suddenly  he  awoke  to  find  the  rabbit  a  man's  arm. 
He  gripped  it,  instinctively.  It  was  nearly  dark. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing?" 

The  man  replied:  "Why  we  thought  you  was  dead." 

At  the  significance  of  the  plural,  his  grasp  relaxed  and 
he  sat  up,  staring  at  two  men  who  had  come  upon  him  in 
his  solitude.  They  were  dirty,  unshaven,  not  nice  to  look 
upon.  On  one  of  them  he  noticed  a  pair  of  old  khaki 
slacks.  As  soon  as  he  moved  they  knelt  one  on  each  side 
of  him. 

"And  if  I'd  been  dead,  you'd  have  run  through  my 


342  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

pockets  wouldn't  you?"  Suddenly  he  clapped  his  hands 
in  front  of  him.  "You  swine,  you've  got  my  watch  and 
chain." 

He  thrust  them  aside  and  scrambled  anyhow  to  his  feet, 
and  struck  instinctively  with  his  left  full  in  the  face  of 
the  nearest  man  who  had  sprung  up  also.  But  all  his 
weight  was  then  on  his  left  foot  and  the  flame  of  agony 
shot  up  through  his  thigh  and  his  leg  crumpled  up  before 
the  blow  reached  the  man.  Then  the  one  in  the  khaki 
slacks  came  in  with  an  upper  cut  on  the  point  of  his  jaw 
and  he  fell  senseless. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards, he  found  himself  alone,  dazed,  rather  sick,  in  an 
uncomprehended  world  of  gathering  darkness.  Black 
clouds  had  swept  over  the  brow  of  the  quarry  hill.  A 
pattering  noise  some  way  off  struck  his  ear.  He  realized 
it  was  rain  on  the  road.  He  drew  himself  up  to  a  sitting 
posture  and  in  a  moment  or  two  recovered  wits  and  mem- 
ory. There  had  been  a  fight.  There  was  one  man  in 
khaki  slacks — why,  that  was  the  man  who  had  asked  him 
the  time  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  He  had  lain 
in  wait  for  him  and  robbed  him  of  his  watch  and  chain. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  parade  it  in  this  manner. 
Well,  it  was  gone.  It  would  teach  him  a  lesson  in  pru- 
dence. But  the  other  man?  How  did  he  come  in?  Why 
did  they  wait  three  or  four  hours  before  attacking  him? 
Perhaps  the  man  of  the  khaki  slacks  had  struggled 
against  temptation  until  a  more  desperate  acquaintance 
came  along.  He  remembered  the  landlord  of  the  inn 
where  he  had  lunched  telling  him  of  an  ugly  quarrying 
village  he  would  pass  through,  a  nest  of  out-of-works — 
owing  to  quarries,  unprofitable  at  the  high  rate  of  wages, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  343 

being  closed  down — living  discontented  Bolshevik  lives  on 
high  out-of-work  pay.  He  cursed  his  leg.  If  it  had  not 
failed  him,  he  would  have  got  home  on  the  first  man,  as 
easily  as  shaking  hands — the  flabby,  unguarded  face 
shimmered  in  front  of  him;  and  then  he  could  have  turned 
his  attention  to  the  man  in  khaki  slacks,  a  true  loafer 
type,  spiritless  when  alone — the  kind  of  man,  who,  if  he 
had  worn  those  slacks  in  the  army,  would  have  been  in 
guard-room  every  week,  and  would  have  cowered  as  a 
perpetual  cleaner  of  latrines  under  the  eyes  of  vitriol- 
tongued  sergeants.  Far  from  a  fighting  man.  His  imag- 
ination worked,  almost  pleasurably,  in  the  reconstitution 
of  the  robbery.  But  for  his  abominable  leg  he  would 
have  downed  both  the  degenerate  scoundrels,  and  have 
recovered  his  precious  belongings.  He  damned  them  and 
his  leg  impartially.  The  watch  and  chain  were  all  that 
he  had  kept  materially  of  Olivia.  In  the  morning  he  had 
hesitated  as  to  the  advisability  of  carrying  them  with  him, 
gold  watches  and  chains  not  being  customarily  accoutre- 
ments of  a  common  sailor  in  wind-jammer  or  tramp 
steamer  fo'c'sle.  But  sentiment  had  prevained.  He 
could  hide  them  somewhere,  when  he  reached  the  port, 
and  at  convenient  slop-shops  he  could  have  reorganized 
attire  and  equipment. 

The  rain  pattering  on  the  open  road  came  dribbling 
through  the  branches  of  the  pines.  He  cursed  the  rain. 
He  must  go  on  somewhere.  Absurd  to  stay  in  the  wood 
and  get  wet  through.  He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  then 
for  the  first  time  became  aware  of  a  looseness  around  his 
middle.  He  looked  down.  His  trousers  were  unbut- 
toned, his  shirt  sagged  out  immodestly  as  if  the  front  had 
been  hurriedly  tucked  in.  His  hands  sought  his  waist. 
The  belt  with  all  the  money  he  had  in  the  world  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  close  on  midnight  when  a  car  grated  and 
stopped  in  front  of  the  little  Georgian  house  in  Pen- 
dish,  and  the  truant  stumbled  through  the  door,  left 
open,  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Pettiland  who  was 
anxiously  awaiting  him.  He  was  wet  through,  dishev- 
elled, exhausted.  He  was  shivering  with  cold  and  his 
face  was  like  the  mask  of  a  ghost.  She  met  him  in  the 
passage  and  dragged  him  into  the  little  sea-haunted  par- 
lour. 

"Oh,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

She  had  been  worried  all  day,  unable  to  account  for  the 
money,  a  month's  rent  and  board  in  advance,  in  the  en- 
velope addressed  to  her. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  overdo  yourself?" 

He  greeted'her  upbraidings  with  a  laugh  of  bravado. 

"I  set  out  to-day  on  my  last  adventure.  This  is  the 
end  of  it.  I'm  here  for  the  rest  of  time." 

"You'll  be  in  the  churchyard  for  the  rest  of  eternity, 
if  you  don't  go  to  bed  at  once,"  she  declared. 

She  packed  him  to  his  room;  fussed  motherwise  about 
him;  dosed  him  with  ammoniated  quinine;  stuck  hot- 
water  bottles  in  his  bed;  stood  over  him  with  hot  Bovril 
with  an  egg  in  it.  She  prescribed  whisky,  also  hot;  but 
since  the  fatal  night  at  Rowington's  dinner  party,  he 
had  abjured  alcohol. 

"Now  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  has  happened,"  she 
said. 

344 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  345 

"My  game  leg  gave  out  when  I  got  to  some  quarries. 
I  believe  the  beastly  place  is  called  Woorow " 

"Woorow!  Why  that's  the  other  side  of  the  county!" 
She  looked  at  him  aghast.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  walked  to  Woorow  in  your  state?  Really  men 
oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to  run  about  loose." 

"I've  run  about  loose  since  I  was  fourteen,"  said  he. 

"And  a  pretty  mess  you  seem  to  have  made  of  it.  And 
then  what  did  you  do?" 

She  took  away  the  cup  of  Bovril  and  poached  egg  which 
he  had  devoured  ravenously,  to  her  womanly  satisfac- 
tion, and  handed  him  another.  He  continued  his  story, 
recounting  it,  between  spoonfulls,  in  his  imaginative  way. 
When  he  found  he  could  go  no  further  he  curled  up  to 
sleep  in  a  wood.  When  things  went  wrong,  he  assured 
her,  there  was  nothing  like  going  to  sleep  in  a  wood.  All 
the  pixies  and  elves  and  rabbits  and  stoats  and  weasels 
came  and  sat  round  you  in  a  magic  circle,  shielding  you 
from  harm.  What  would  have  happened  to  the  Babes 
in  the  Wood,  he  cried,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  robins? 

"I  wonder  what  your  temperature  is,"  said  Mrs.  Petti- 
land. 

"Normal,"  said  he.  "This  is  the  first  hour  I've  been 
normal  for  months." 

"I'll  take  it  before  I  leave  you,"  she  said.  "Well,  you 
went  to  sleep?" 

Yes.  He  slept  like  an  enchanted  dog.  He  woke  up 
four  hours  afterwards  to  find  it  pouring  with  rain.  What 
could  he  do?  He  had  to  get  back.  Walking,  with  his 
rotten  old  leg,  was  out  of  the  question.  In  the  daytime 
a  decent  looking  pedestrian  may  have  the  chance  of 
stopping  a  motoring  Good  Samaritan  and,  with  a  tale  of 


346  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

sudden  lameness,  get  a  lift  by  the  side  of  the  chauffeur. 
But  at  night  it  was  impossible.  To  stand  with  arresting 
arms  outspread  in  front  of  the  hell-lamps  of  an  advanc- 
ing car  would  be  an  act  of  suicidal  desperation.  No;  he 
had  returned  by  all  sorts  of  .stages.  He  had  almost  for- 
gotten them.  A  manure  cart  had  brought  him  some  way. 
Then  he  had  gone  dot  and  carry  one  for  a  mile.  Then 
something  else.  He  could  only  hail  slow  moving  traffic 
in  the  wet  and  darkness.  Then  he  spent  an  endless  time 
in  the  cab  of  a  steam  traction  engine  which  he  had  aban- 
doned on  seeing  a  two-seater  car  with  flaring  head-lamps, 
stationed  at  a  cottage  gate. 

"The  old  campaigner's  instinct,  Mrs.  Pettiland.  What 
should  it  be  but  a  doctor's  car,  outside  a  poor  little  cot- 
tage? And  as  the  head-lamps  were  pointing  to  where 
I  had  come  from,  I  concluded  he  had  drawn  up  and  would 
turn  round  and  go  where  I  wanted  to  get  to." 

"And  was  it  a  doctor?" 

He  laughed.  Of  course  it  was.  He  had  taken  shelter 
from  the  rain  under  the  hood  of  the  car  for  an  hour. 
Then,  when  the  cottage  door  opened,  he  had  scrambled 
out  and  waited  for  the  owner.  There  had  been  a  few 
words  of  explanation.  By  luck,  it  was  Doctor  Stans- 
field  of  Fanstead 

"Dr.  Stansfield— why " 

"Why  of  course.  He  knows  you  inside  and  out.  A 
charming  fellow.  He  dropped  me  here,  or  rather  I 
dropped  him." 

"And  he  never  came  in  to  look  after  you — a  man  in 
your  condition?  I'll  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  when 
I  see  him." 

He  soothed  the  indignant  lady.    The  good  doctor  was 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  347 

unaware  that  anything  particular  was  wrong  with  him. 
Poor  man,  he  had  been  on  the  go  since  five  o'clock  the 
previous  morning — human  beings  are  born  inconsiderate 
of  the  feelings  of  others — and  he  was  dog-tired.  Too 
dog-tired  even  to  argue.  He  would  have  given  a  lift  to 
Judas  Iscariot,  or  the  Leper  of  Aosta,  so  long  as  he  wasn't 
worried. 

"He  nearly  pitched  us  over,  at  a  curve  called  Hell's 
Corner — you  know.  The  near  front  wheel  was  just  an 
inch  off  the  edge.  And  then  he  stopped  dead  and  flung 
his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  said:  'Oh,  my  God! '  He  had 
lost  his  nerve.  Then  when  I  told  his  I  had  driven  every- 
thing from  a  General's  Rolls  Royce  to  an  armoured  car 
all  over  Russia  in  the  war,  he  let  me  take  the  wheel.  And 
that's  the  whole  thing." 

He  chatted  boyishly,  in  high  spirits,  and  smoked  a 
cigarette.  Mrs.  Pettiland  went  for  a  clinical  thermom- 
eter. To  her  secret  disappointment,  his  temperature 
was  only  just  above  normal.  She  would  have  loved  to 
keep  him  in  bed  a  few  days  and  have  the  proper  order- 
ing of  him.  A  woman  loves  to  have  an  amazing  fool 
of  a  man  at  her  mercy,  especially  if  she  is  gifted  with  a 
glimmer  of  humour.  When  she  left  him,  he  laughed  out 
loud.  Well,  he  had  had  his  adventure  with  a  vengeance. 
A  real  old  Will-o'-the-Wisp  chase,  which  had  landed  him, 
as  ever,  into  disaster.  Yet  it  had  been  worth  it,  every  bit, 
until  his  leg  gave  out  on  the  quarry  hill.  Even  his  slum- 
ber he  did  not  regret.  His  miserable  journey  back,  re- 
calling old  days,  had  its  points.  It  was  good  to  get  the 
better  of  circumstances. 

As  to  his  money  which  was  to  have  started  him  in  life 
among  coral  reefs  and  conch-shells,  that  had  gone  ir- 


348  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

retrievably.  Of  course,  he  could  have  gone  to  the  nearest 
police-station.  But  if  the  miscreants  were  arrested,  he 
would  have  to  prosecute.  Highway  robbery  was  a  se- 
rious affair;  the  stolen  belt  packed  with  bank  notes,  a 
romantic  one.  The  trial  would  provide  a  good  newspa- 
per story.  There  would  be  most  undesirable  publicity; 
and  publicity  is  the  last  thing  a  man  dead  to  the  world 
would  desire.  He  shrugged  philosophic  shoulders.  Let 
the  money  go.  The  humour  of  the  situation  tickled  his 
vagabond  fancy.  He  was  penniless.  That  was  the  com- 
ical end  of  his  pursuit  of  the  ignis  jatuus.  The  freak 
finality  and  inevitability  of  it  stimulated  his  sense  of  the 
romantic.  If  he  had  been  possessed  of  real  courage,  he 
would  have  made  over  all  his  money,  months  ago,  to 
Olivia  and  disappeared,  as  he  was  now,  into  the  unknown. 
His  experience  of  life  ought  to  have  taught  him  the  inexor- 
able fatality  of  compromise.  What  would  he  do?  He 
did  not  know.  Drowsy  after  the  day's  fatigue,  and  very 
warm  and  comfortable,  he  did  not  care.  He  curled  him- 
self up  in  the  bed  and  went  to  sleep. 

One  afternoon,  a  week  afterwards,  he  limped  into  Mrs. 
Pettiland's  post-office  with  a  gay  air. 

"Mrs.  Pettiland,"  said  he,  "at  last  I  have  found  my 
true  vocation." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir,"  she  replied  undisturbed  in 
her  official  duties  which  consisted  in  taking  the  coppers 
from  a  small  child  in  payment  for  two  stamps.  "You've 
been  rather  restless  these  last  few  days." 

Triona  watched  the  child  depart,  clasping  the  stamps 
in  a  clammy  hand. 

"When  one  hasn't  a  penny  in  the  world  and  starva- 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  349 

tion  stares  you  in  the  face,  one  may  be  excused  for  busy 
search  for  a  means  of  livelihood." 

"You've  got  plenty  of  money." 

"I  haven't." 

"You  paid  me  a  month's  board  and  lodging  in  advance, 
the  other  day — though  why  you  did  it,  I  can't  under- 
stand." 

"I  was  going  to  run  away,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "To 
compensate  you  in  that  miserable  manner  for  inconven- 
ience was  the  least  I  could  do.  But  the  gods  rightly 
stepped  in  and  hauled  me  back."  He  swung  himself  on 
the  counter  and  smiled  at  her.  "I'm  a  fraud,  you  know." 

The  plump  and  decorous  lady  could  not  realize  his 
earnestness.  Behind  his  words  lay  some  jest  which  she 
could  not  fathom. 

"You  don't  believe  me?" 

He  sighed.  If  he  had  told  her  a  fairy  tale  she,  like  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  in  his  past  life,  would  have  believed 
him.  Now  that  he  told  the  truth,  he  met  with  blank  in- 
credulity. 

"I'm  going  to  earn  my  living.  I'm  taking  on  a  job  as 
chauffeur." 

She  stared  at  him.    "A  chauffeur — you?" 

"Yes.     Why   not?" 

Her  mind  ran  over  his  intellectual  face,  his  clothes,  his 
manners,  his  talk — free  and  sometimes  disconcertingly 
allusive,  like  that  of  the  rare  and  impeccably  introduced 
artists  whom  she  had  lodged — his  books  .  .  . 

"Why — you're  a  gentleman,"  she  gasped. 

"Oh  no.  Not  really.  I've  been  all  kinds  of  things  in 
my  time.  Among  them  I've  passed  as  a  gentleman.  But 
by  trade  I'm  a  chauffeur.  I  practically  started  life  as  a 


350  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

chauffeur — in  Russia.  For  years  I  drove  a  Russian 
Prince  all  over  Europe.  Now  there  aren't  any  more 
Russian  Princes  I'm  going  to  drive  the  good  people  of 
Fanstead  to  railway  stations  and  dinner  parties." 

"Well,  I  never,"  said  Mrs.  Pettiland. 

'^There's  a  young  man — an  ex-officer — Radnor  by 
name,  in  Fanstead — who  has  just  set  up  a  motor  garage." 

"He'll  fail,"  said  Mrs.  Pettiland.  "They  all  do.  Old 
Hetherington  of  'The  Bull'  has  all  the  custom." 

"With  one  rickety  death-trap  for  hire  and  a  fool  of  a 
mechanic  who  has  wrecked  every  car  sent  in  for  repairs 
for  a  radius  of  thirty  miles.  I  offered  Hetherington  to 
teach  him  his  business.  You  might  as  well  sing  'II 
Trovatore'  to  a  mule.  So  I  went  to  Radnor.  He  had  just 
sacked  a  man,  and  with  my  invariable  luck,  I  stepped  in 
at  the  right  moment.  No,  Mrs.  Pettiland — "  he  swung 
his  sound  leg  and  looked  at  her,  enjoying  her  mystifica- 
tion " — the  reign  of  Hetherington  is  over.  Radnor's 
Garage  is  going  to  be  the  wonder  of  the  country-side." 

He  believed  it  implicitly.  Radnor,  a  mild  and  worried 
young  man,  with  quite  a  sound  knowledge  of  his  busi- 
ness, might  struggle  along  and  earn  a  hand-to-mouth 
living.  But  he  lacked  driving-power.  To  Triona,  dur- 
ing his  two  or  three  interviews  with  him,  that  was  ob- 
vious. He  had  sufficient  capital  for  a  start,  a  good  garage 
equipment,  a  fairly  modern  25  h.p.  utility  car  and  was 
trying  to  make  up  his  mind  to  buy  another.  Triona 
divined  his  irresolution.  He  would  be  at  the  mercy  of 
unscrupulous  mechanics  and  chauffeurs.  His  spirit 
seemed  to  have  been  broken  by  two  years  imprisonment 
in  Germany.  He  had  lost  the  secret  of  command.  And, 
by  nature,  a  modest,  retiring  gentleman.  Triona  pitied 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  351 

him.  He  had  wandered  through  the  West  of  England 
seeking  a  pitch  where  the  competition  was  not  too  fierce, 
and  finding  unprogressive  Fanstead,  had  invested  all  his 
capital  in  the  business.  He  had  been  there  a  couple  of 
months  during  which  very  little  work  had  come  in.  He 
could  stick  it  out  for  six  months  more.  After  that  the 
deluge. 

"Give  me  four  pounds  a  week  as  head  mechanic  and 
chauffeur,"  said  Triona,  "and  the  deluge  will  be  golden 
rain." 

This  was  after  the  exhibition  of  John  Briggs'  papers — 
Armoured  Car  Column  and  Minesweeper — and  the  tale 
of  his  Russian  chauffeurdom.  He  had  also  worked 
magic,  having  a  diagnostician's  second  sight  into  the  in- 
side of  a  car's  mechanism,  with  a  mysteriously  broken 
down  40  h.p.  foreign  car,  the  only  one  in  the  garage  for 
repairs,  which,  apparently  flawless,  owner  and  chauffeur 
and  Radnor  himself  regarded  with  hebetude. 

'<I'll  take  you  on  all  right,"  said  Radnor.  "But, 
surely  a  man  like  you  ought  to  be  running  a  show  of  his 
own." 

"I  haven't  a  cent  in  the  world,"  replied  Triona.  "So 
I  can't!" 

All  this  he  told  Mrs.  Pettiland,  swinging  his  sound  leg, 
as  he  sat  on  the  counter. 

"The  only  fly  in  the  ointment,"  said  he,  "is  that  I  shall 
have  to  move." 

"From  here?    Whatever  for?" 

"Chauffeurs  don't  have  luxurious  bed-sitting-rooms  with 
specially  designed  scenery  for  views.  They  can't  afford 
it.  Besides,  they're  not  desirable  lodgers." 

She  flushed  indignantly.     If  he  thought  she  would  pre- 


352  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

fer  his  room  to  his  company,  because  he  drove  a  car,  he 
was  very  much  mistaken.  The  implication  hurt.  Even 
suppose  he  was  fit  to  look  after  a  car,  he  was  not  yet 
fit  to  look  after  himself.  Witness  his  folly  of  a  week 
ago.  He  would  pay  her  whatever  he  could  afford  and  she 
would  be  more  than  contented. 

"What  wonderful  people  there  are  in  the  world,"  he 
sighed. 

But  he  withstood  her  generous  blandishments.  No, 
there  was  an  eternal  fitness  of  things.  Besides,  he  must 
live  at  the  garage,  ready  to  attend  telephone  calls  by  day 
or  by  night.  He  couldn't  be  hobbling  backwards  and 
forwards  between  Fanstead  and  Pendish.  Against  this 
practical  side  of  the  question  there  could  be  no  argument. 

"And  what  shall  I  do  with  the  money  you've  paid  in 
advance?" 

"Keep  it  for  a  while,"  said  he.  "Perhaps  Randor  will 
give  me  the  sack  and  I'll  come  creeping  back  to  you." 

Thus  did  Triona,  with  bag  and  baggage  take  up  his 
quarters  in  an  attic  loft  in  the  garage  yard  at  Fanstead. 

Not  since  his  flight  from  Olivia  had  he  felt  so  free  of 
care.  Fate  had  condemned  him  to  the  backwater  and  in 
the  backwater  he  would  pass  his  contented  life,  a  life  of 
truth  and  honesty.  And  he  had  before  him  an  essential 
to  his  soul's  health — an  ideal.  He  would  inspire  the 
spiritless  with  spirit,  the  ineffectual  with  efficiency,  the 
sick  heart  with  health.  The  man  Radnor  had  deserved 
well  of  his  country  through  gallant  service,  wounds  and 
imprisonment.  His  country  had  given  him  the  military 
Cross  and  a  lieutenant's  gratuity,  and  told  him  not  to 
worry  it  any  more.  If  Mrs.  Pettiland's  prophecy  came 
true  and  he  failed,  he  would  be  cast  upon  a  country  that 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  353 

wouldn't  be  worried.  Triona  swore  that  he  should  pull 
through.  He  would  save  a  fellow-man  from  shipwreck, 
without  his  knowledge.  It  was  something  to  live  for. 
He  became  once  more  the  perfect  chauffeur,  the  enthusi- 
astic motor-man,  dreaming  of  a  great  garage — a  sort  of 
Palace  of  Automobiles  for  the  West  of  England. 

And  as  he  dreamed,  so  did  it  begin  to  come  to  pass. 
The  efficiency  of  the  Quantock  Garage  became  known 
for  miles  around.  Owners  of  valuable  cars  forsook  the 
professional  wreckers  in  the  great  junction  town  and 
sent  them  to  Fanstead.  Radnor  soon  bought  his  second 
car;  by  the  end  of  the  autumn  a  third  car;  and  increased 
his  staff.  Triona  was  foreman  mechanician.  Had  he 
not  so  desired,  he  need  not  have  driven.  Nor  need  he 
have  driven  in  the  brass-buttoned  livery  on  which  he 
insisted  that  Radnor's  chauffeurs  should  be  attired. 
Smartness,  he  argued  rightly,  caught  the  eye  and  imagina- 
tion. But  he  loved  the  wheel.  Driving  cooled  the 
vagabond  fire  in  his  veins.  There  was  an  old  touring- 
car  of  high  horse-power,  excellent  when  nursed  with  lov- 
ing hand  and  understanding  heart,  but  a  box  of  dismal 
caprice  to  the  inexpert,  which  he  would  allow  no  one  to 
drive  but  himself.  Radnor  held  the  thing  in  horror  and 
wanted  to  sell  it  as  a  bad  bargain.  He  had  had  it  out 
once  and  it  had  broken  down  ten  miles  from  home  and 
had  suffered  the  ignominy  of  a  tow  back.  Triona 
wrought  at  it  for  three  weeks,  conjuring  up  spare  parts 
from  nowhere,  and  fitting  to  it  new  devices,  and  turned 
out  a  going  concern  in  which  he  took  inordinate  pride. 
He  whirled  touring  parties  prodigious  distances  in  this 
once  rickety  creature  of  his  adoption.  He  could  get 
thirty-five  or  forty  out  of  her  easily. 


354  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"All  right.  It's  your  funeral,  not  mine,"  said  Radnor 
during  one  of  their  discussions. 

It  was  a  healthy  life.  His  lameness  did  not  matter. 
Whatever  internal  lesions  he  suffered  from  gave  no  symp- 
toms of  existence.  His  face  lost  its  lines  of  suffering,  his 
eyes  their  shifty  haggardness.  He  put  on  flesh,  as  far 
as  is  possible  for  a  naturally  spare-built  man.  Randor, 
an  honourable  soul,  when  the  business  in  the  new  year 
shewed  proof  of  immense  development,  offered  him  a 
substantial  increase  in  salary.  But  Triona  refused. 

"What  do  I  want  with  money,  my  dear  fellow?  If 
I  had  more  I'd  only  spend  it  for  books.  And  I've  more  of 
them  now  than  I  know  where  to  put  them.  No;  keep  all 
you  can  for  capital  in  the  business.  Or  stick  it  into  an 
advertisement  scheme  I've  been  working  out — " 

"You're  an  odd  devil,  Briggs,"  said  Radnor.  He  was 
a  small  dark  man  with  great  mournful  eyes  and  a  little 
clipped  moustache  over  a  timorous  mouth,  and  his  lips 
were  always  twitching.  "A  queer  devil.  What  I  should 
have  done  without  you,  I  don't  know.  If  I  could  do  what 
I  want,  I  should  offer  you  a  partnership." 

"Don't  be  a  damned  fool,"  said  Triona.  "A  partner 
puts  in  money  and  I  haven't  a  bean.  Besides  if  I  were 
a  partner,  the  whole  show  would  go  to  hell." 

"Why?" 

"I  should  immediately  want  to  go  and  do  something 
else,"  replied  Triona. 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  Radnor. 

"Best  thing  you  can  do,"  said  Triona. 

How  could  the  very  grateful  young  proprietor  divine 
the  spiritual  crankiness  of  his  foreman?  He  went 
through  the  English  equivalent  of  shoulder  shrugging. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  355 

Briggs,  from  the  business  point  of  view,  was  a  treasure 
fallen  from  Heaven.  And  Briggs  was  a  mystery.  He 
didn't  begin  to  pretend  to  understand  Briggs.  Briggs  ob- 
viously didn't  want  to  be  understood.  Radnor  was  a 
gentleman.  He  could  press  the  matter  no  further. 

"Let  us  get  this  business  up  to  a  net  profit  of  three 
thousand  a  year  and  then  we  may  talk,"  said  Triona. 

"Three  thou— !  Good  God,  man,  I  couldn't  talk.  I'd 
slobber  and  gibber!" 

"That's  where  I'll  come  in,"  laughed  Triona. 

He  had  set  his  heart  on  this  wash-out  from  the  war 
making  good.  Just  before  Christmas  he  had  an  added 
incentive.  A  melancholy  lady  and  a  wistful  pretty  girl 
had  flashed  for  a  week  end  through  Fanstead.  They  had 
come  from  London  and  had  put  up  at  The  King's  Head. 
Radnor  had  made  the  tour  of  the  proprietor  through  the 
garage. 

"This  is  Mr.  Briggs,  my  foreman,  whom  I've  so  often 
told  you  about." 

And  afterwards,  to  Triona,  with  an  air  of  incon- 
sequence: 

"A  kind  of  aunt  and  cousin  of  mine  who  wanted  to  see 
how  I  was  getting  on." 

Poor  old  chap!  Of  course  they  wanted  to  see  how  he 
was  getting  on.  The  girl's  assessing  eyes  took  in  every- 
thing, himself  included. 

The  unbidden  phrase  flashed  through  his  brain. 

"He  shall  marry  the  girl  by  Michaelmas  Day!" 

The  sudden  impishness  of  it  delighted  him. 

"By  God,  he  shall!"  he  swore  to  himself. 

So  he  refused  an  increase  of  salary  and,  by  following  an 
ignis  jatuus  of  an  ideal,  he  kept  his  conscience  in  a  state 


356  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

of  interested  amusement  at  the  mystification  of  his 
employer. 

April  came  and  found  the  Quantock  Garage  in  full  tide 
of  business.  Hetherington  of  "The  Bull"  had  long  since 
given  up  his  wheezy  station  car  and  the  motor-destroy- 
ing works  in  which  he  housed  it.  Triona  laboured  from 
morning  to  night,  for  a  while  content  to  see  the  wheels  of 
an  efficient  establishment  go  round.  And  then  he  began 
to  grow  restless.  He  had  set  Radnor  permanently  on 
his  feet.  If  he  left,  the  business  would  go  on  by  its  own 
momentum.  Nothing  more  was  needed  than  Radnor's 
own  conscientious  plodding.  Why  should  he  stay?  He 
had  achieved  his  purpose.  Radnor  would  surely  be  in 
a  financial  position  warranting  him  to  marry  the  girl  by 
Michaelmas. 

"I'll  see  him  through,"  he  vowed,  and  stayed  on. 
"And  then " 

And  then?  Life  once  more  became  a  blank.  Of  late 
he  had  drugged  lonely  and  despairing  thoughts  by  read- 
ing. Books  grew  into  great  piles  in  corners  of  his  loft 
above  the  garage.  But  reading  awoke  him  to  the  poig- 
nant craving  for  expression.  He  had  half  a  dozen  tan- 
talizing plots  for  novels  in  his  head,  a  score  of  great  situa- 
tions, a  novelist's  gallery  of  vivid  personalities.  As  to 
the  latter,  he  had  a  superstition.  If  he  gave  one  a  name  it 
would  arise  in  flesh  and  blood,  insistent  on  having  its 
story  told.  So  he  shut  tempting  names  resolutely  from 
his  brain;  for  he  had  made  up  his  queer  mind  never  to 
write  another  line  of  romance. 

The  spring  stirred  the  sap  within  him.  It  was  a  year 
now  since  he  had  fled  from  Olivia.  What  was  she  doing, 
what  feeling?  Occasionally  he  called  on  Mrs.  Pettiland. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  357 

Myra,  he  learned,  had  paid  her  weekly  visit  in  October, 
had  occupied  his  old  room,  had  gone  to  visit  her  lunatic 
husband,  had  maintained  her  impenetrable  silence  as  to 
her  mistress's  doings.  When  Mrs.  Pettiland  had  reported 
his  chauffeur  activities,  Myra  had  said: 

"I'm  glad  he  has  got  honest  employment." 

"Shall  I  let  him  know  that  you're  here?"  Mrs.  Pettiland 
had  asked. 

Myra  had  answered  in  her  final  way: 

"I've  no  desire  to  see  him  and  he  certainly  has  no  desire 
to  see  me." 

Myra,  therefore,  had  come  and  gone  without  his  knowl- 
edge. Often  he  wished  that  he  had  met  her  and  wrung 
some  information  from  her  unwilling  lips.  And  now, 
with  his  purpose  accomplished,  his  heart  aching  for 
change,  his  spirit  craving  to  pour  itself  out  in  tumultuous 
words,  and  his  soul  crying  for  her  that  was  lost,  the 
thought  that  had  haunted  the  back  of  his  mind  for  the 
past  year  stood  out  grimly  spectre-wise.  What  right  had 
he  to  live?  Olifant  had  spoken  truly.  What  right  had 
he  to  compel  her  to  perpetual  widowhood  that  was  no 
widowhood?  She  was  tied  to  him,  a  husband  lost,  as  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  to  human  ken,  never  to  cross  her 
path  again;  tied  to  him  as  much  as  Myra  was  tied  to  the 
poor  wretch  in  the  madhouse.  And  as  Myra  had  grown 
soured  and  hard,  so  might  Olivia  grow.  Olivia  so  young 
now,  with  all  the  joy  of  life  before  her.  He  gone,  she 
could  marry  again.  There  was  Olifant,  that  model  of 
men,  whom  he  guessed  to  have  supplanted.  With  him 
she  could  be  happy  until  her  life's  end.  Once  more  she 
could  be  Lady  Bountiful  of  "The  Towers."  .  .  .  The  con- 
ception was  an  agony  of  the  flesh,  keeping  him  awake  of 


358  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

nights  on  the  hard  little  camp-bed  in  the  loft.  He 
grappled  with  the  torture,  resolved  to  triumph  over  it,  as 
he  had  gritted  his  teeth  and  triumphed  over  physical  pain 
in  hospitals.  The  knife  was  essential,  he  told  himself. 
It  was  for  her  sake.  It  was  his  duty  to  put  himself  out  of 
the  world. 

And  yet  the  days  went  on,  and  he  felt  the  lust  of  life 
in  his  blood.  The  question  tauntingly  arose:  Is  it  braver 
to  die  than  to  live?  Is  it  more  cowardly  to  live  than  to 
die?  He  couldn't  answer  it. 

In  the  meantime  he  went  on  mending  broken-down 
motor-engines  and  driving  gay  tourists  about  the  country- 
side, in  his  car  of  resurrection. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"W"  "W"  TTHAT  was  bound  to  happen  had  happened. 
%/\/  Olifant  the  Galahad,  out  for  grails,  as 

^  y  Triona,  and  indeed  as  Olivia  had  pictured 
him,  had  lost  his  head,  poured  out  a  flow  of  mad  words, 
and  flung  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her  passionately. 
She  had  been  caught,  had  half-surrendered;  released,  she 
had  put  hands  to  a  tumultuous  bosom  and  staggered  away 
from  him.  And  there  had  followed  a  scene  enacted  for 
the  twenty-billionth  time  on  the  world's  stage.  She  had 
grown  weak  and  strong  by  turns.  At  last  she  had  said: 

"If  you  love  me,  go  now  and  let  me  think  it  over  and  all 
that  it  means." 

And  he  had  gone,  passion  yielding  to  his  courteous  con- 
sideration of  her,  and  she  was  left  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room,  staring  through  the  open  French  windows  at  the 
May  garden. 

Since  her  return  from  the  South  of  France,  she  had  felt 
the  thing  coming.  In  October,  as  soon  as  Myra  had 
returned  from  her  holiday,  fear  had  driven  her  from 
Medlow.  The  hunger  in  the  man's  eyes  proclaimed  an 
impossible  situation.  The  guest  and  host  position  she 
had  changed  after  the  first  few  weeks.  Brother  and  sister 
and  herself  kept  house  together — on  the  face  of  it  a  sen- 
sible and  economical  arrangement.  Mr.  Trivett  and  Mr. 
Fenmarch,  once  more  financial  advisers,  commended  it 
with  enthusiasm.  The  summer  had  passed  happily 
enough.  The  modus  vivendi  with  the  sections  of  Medlow 

359 


360  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

society  respectively  symbolized  by  Landsdowne  House 
and  Blair  Park  had  arranged  itself  automatically.  She 
found  conferred  upon  her  the  Freedom  of  each.  The 
essential  snobbery  of  English  life  is  a  myth  kept  alive  by 
our  enemies.  It  is  true  that  the  squire  and  the  linen- 
draper  do  not  ask  each  other  and  their  families  to  dinner. 
Their  social  worlds  are  apart.  They  don't  want  to  ask 
each  other  to  dinner.  They  would  never  dream  of  asking 
each  other  to  dinner,  one  no  more  than  the  other;  they 
respect  each  other  too  mightily.  But  a  dweller  in  both 
worlds,  such  as  Olivia,  Trivett-ed  and  Gale-d  though  she 
was  on  the  one  side,  yet  on  the  other,  the  wife  of  the 
famous  Alexis  Triona  and  the  friend  of  the  Olifants,  folks 
whose  genealogy  was  lost  somewhere  in  a  Pictish  bonfire 
of  archives,  can  wander  up  and  down  the  whole  social 
gamut  at  her  good  pleasure.  Besides  she  herself  does  not 
mix  the  incompatible.  A  mere  question  of  the  art  of  life, 
which  Olivia,  with  her  London  experiences  found  easy  of 
resolution.  So,  in  the  mild  and  mellow  way  on  which 
Medlow  prided  itself,  she  had  danced  and  tennis-ed  and 
picnic-ed  the  summer  through.  On  the  Blair  Park  side — 
she  wondered  laughingly  at  their  unsupercilious  noses — 
Blaise  Olifant  and  his  sister  accompanied  her  in  the  gentle 
festivities.  Each  day  had  brought  its  petty  golden  dust — 
the  futile  Church  bazaar,  the  tennis  tournament,  the 
whist-drive  of  which  old  John  Freke,  the  linen-draper 
father  of  Lydia,  had  made  her  a  lady-patroness,  the  motor- 
run  into  quaint  Shrewsbury,  on  shopping  adventure  in 
quest  of  crab  or  lobster  unobtainable  in  Medlow — a  thou- 
sand trivial  activities — to  the  innocent  choking  of  her  soul, 
to  use  Matthew  Arnold's  figure,  and  an  inevitable  forget- 
fullness.  Everything  had  gone  well  until  October.  Then 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  361 

she  had  taken  prudent  flight  with  Myra  to  the  France  and 
Italy  which  she  had  never  seen — and  there  she  had  stayed 
till  the  beginning  of  May. 

It  was  Mrs.  Woolcombe  who  insisted  on  her  return  to 
Medlow.  Where  else  should  she  return  after  her  wander- 
ings but  to  her  own  home?  At  first  everything  was  just 
as  it  used  to  be.  Then,  on  a  trivial  cause — an  insult 
offered  her  by  an  Italian  in  Venice  which  she  had  laugh- 
ingly recounted — the  passion  of  Blaise  Olifant  had  sud- 
denly flamed  forth. 

She  was  frightened,  shaken.  He  had  given  her 
the  thrill,  which,  in  her  early  relations  with  him 
she  had  half  contemptuously  deemed  impossible. 
She  found  herself  free  from  sense  of  outrage.  She  bore 
him  no  resentment.  Indeed  she  had  responded  to  his 
kiss.  She  was  not  quite  sure,  within  herself,  whether  she 
would  not  respond  again.  The  communicated  thrill 
completed  her  original  conception  of  him  as  the  very  per- 
fect gentle  knight.  For  after  all,  knights  without  red- 
blood  in  their  veins  might  be  gentle,  but  scarcely  perfect. 

If  she  were  free,  she  would  marry  him  out  of  hand, 
without  further  question.  He  had  always  dwelt  in  a 
tender  spot  of  her  heart.  Now  he  had  slipped  into  one 
more  warm,  smouldering  with  strange  fires.  But  she  was 
not  free.  She  stood  at  once  at  the  parting  of  the  roads. 
She  must  go  back  to  a  wandering  or  lonely  life,  or  she 
must  defy  conventions. 

She  went  out  into  the  ivy-walled  garden,  and  walked  up 
the  central  path,  between  the  beds  of  wallflowers  and  for- 
get-me-nots and  the  standard  roses  just  bursting  into  leaf. 
What  could  she  do?  Once  she  had  laughed  scornfully  at 
the  idea  of  love  playing  any  part  in  her  life.  She  had  not 


362  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

reckoned  with  her  youth.  And  now  she  stared  aghast 
at  the  vista  of  lonely  and  loveless  years. 

Presently  Blaise  Olifant  came  from  his  study  and 
advanced  to  meet  her. 

He  said:  "Can  you  speak  to  me  now?" 

"Yes — now,"  she  answered. 

"I've  behaved  like  any  blackguard.  You  must  forgive 
me,  if  you  can.  The  Italian  cad  who  made  me  see  red 
was  not  very  much  worse  than  myself." 

There  was  a  smile  in  her  dark  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at 
him. 

"There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  I  disliked 
the  Italian  very  much."  She  touched  his  sleeve.  "You 
are  forgiven,  my  dear  friend.  It's  all  my  fault.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  come  back." 

"You're  the  most  wonderful  of  women,"  said  he. 

The  most  wonderful  of  women  made  a  little  wry  move- 
ment of  her  lips. 

"It's  all  a  might-be  and  a  can't-be,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Do  you  suppose,  my  dear,  I  don't  know  that?  If  it 
could  be,  do  you  think  I  should  regret  losing  my  self- 
control?" 

She  said.  "If  it's  any  consolation  to  you — perhaps  I 
lost  mine  too.  We're  both  human.  Perhaps  a  woman 
is  even  more  so  than  a  man.  That's  why  I  went  away  in 
October — things  were  getting  impossible " 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you  were 
bored  to  death!" 

A  little  laugh  could  not  be  restrained.  The  blindness 
of  man  to  psychological  phenomena  is  ever  a  subject  for 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  363 

woman's  sweet  or  bitter  mirth.  But  it  was  not  in  his 
heart  to  respond. 

"Then  you  do  care  for  me  a  little?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  standing  here  with  you  now,  if  I  didn't. 
I  shouldn't  have  made  the  mistake  of  coming  back,  if 
I  hadn't  wanted  to  see  you." 

"Mistake?"  He  sighed  and  turned  a  step  away. 
"Yes.  I  suppose  it  was.  I  should  have  been  frank  with 
Mary  and  shewn  her  that  it  was  impossible — for  me." 

"It  would  be  best  for  me  to  go  to-morrow,"  said  Olivia. 

"Where?" 

"London.  A  hotel.  Any  old  branch."  She  smiled. 
"I  must  settle  down  somewhere  sooner  or  later.  The 
sooner  the  better." 

"That's  monstrous,"  he  declared  with  a  flash  in  his 
eyes.  "To  turn  you  out  of  your  home — I  should  feel  a 
scoundrel." 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  go  on  living  together,  carry- 
ing on  as  usual,  as  though  nothing  had  happened." 

For  a  few  moments  they  walked  up  the  gravelled  path 
in  silence,  both  bareheaded  in  the  mild  May  sunshine. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  pause.  "I'm  a  man  who 
has  learned  self-control  in  three  hard  schools — my  Scotch 
father's,  science,  war.  If  I  swear  to  you,  on  my  honour, 
that  nothing  that  has  passed  between  us  to-day  shall  ever 
be  revived  by  me  in  look  or  word  or  act — will  you  stay 
with  us,  and  give  me  your — your  friendship — your  com- 
panionship— your  presence  in  the  house?  It  was  an 
aching  desert  all  the  time  you  were  away." 

She  walked  on  a  pace  or  two,  after  a  hopeless  sigh. 
Could  she  never  drive  into  this  unworldly  head  the  fact 


364  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

that  women  were  not  sexless  angels?  How  could  their 
eyes  forever  meet  in  the  glance  of  a  polite  couple  discuss- 
ing the  weather  across  a  tea-table?  She  could  not  resist 
a  shaft  of  mockery. 

"For  all  of  your  philosopher  father  and  science  and 
war — I  wonder,  my  dear  Blaise,  how  much  you  really 
know  of  life?" 

He  halted  and  put  a  hand  on  her  slim  shoulder. 

"I  love  you  so  much  my  dear,"  said  he,  "that  I  should 
be  content  to  hang  crucified  before  you,  so  that  my  eyes 
could  rest  upon  you  till  I  died." 

He  turned  and  strode  fast  away.  She  followed  him 
crying  "Blaise!  Blaise!"  He  half  turned  with  an  ar- 
resting arm — and  even  at  that  moment  she  was  touched 
by  the  pathos  of  the  other  empty  sleeve 

"No,  don't — please." 

She  ran  hard  and  facing  him  blocked  his  way. 

"But  what  of  me?  What  of  my  feelings  while  I  saw 
you  hanging  crucified?" 

That  point  of  view  had  not  occurred  to  him.  He 
looked  at  her  embarrassed.  His  Scottish  veracity  as- 
serted itself. 

"When  a  man's  mad  in  love,"  said  he,  "he  can't  think 
of  everything." 

She  took  his  arm  and  led  him  up  the  gravelled  path 
again. 

"Don't  you  see,  dear,  how  impossible  it  all  is?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  so.  It  must  be  one  thing  or  the 
other.  And  all  that  is  good  and  true  and  honourable 
makes  it  the  other." 

Tears  came  at  the  hopelessness  of  it.  She  seized  his 
hand  in  both  of  hers. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  365 

"What  you  said  just  now  is  a  thing  no  woman  could 
forget  to  the  day  of  her  death." 

She  kissed  the  hand  and  let  it  drop,  stirred  to  the  in- 
most. What  was  she,  ineffectual  failure,  to  command  the 
love  of  such  a  man?  He  stood  for  a  while  looking  into 
the  vacancy  of  the  pale  blue  sky  over  the  ivy-clad  wall. 
Before  her  eyes  garden  and  house  and  wall  and  sky  were 
blotted  out;  and  only  the  one  tall  figure  existed  in  the 
scene.  Her  heart  beat.  It  was  a  moment  of  peril,  and 
the  moment  seemed  like  an  hour. 

At  last  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  his  grave 
smile.  She  put  her  hand  on  her  heart  not  knowing 
whether  to  cry  or  laugh  at  the  relaxation  of  tension. 

"You  stay  here  with  Mary,"  he  said  gently.  "I'll  go 
away  for  a  change — a  holiday.  I  need  one.  There's  an 
old  uncle  of  mine  in  Scotland.  I've  neglected  him  and 
his  salmon-fishing  shamefully  for  years.  How  I  can  fish 
with  one  arm,  heaven  only  knows.  I've  learned  to  do 
most  things.  It'll  be  a  new  experience.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  should  have  gone  last  month,  if  the  temptation  to 
wait  for  you  hadn't  been  so  strong.  It's  up  in  the  wilds 
of  Inverness " 

She  made  feeble  protest.  It  was  she  who  drove  him 
out  of  his  home.  Far  better  for  her  to  cut  herself  adrift 
from  Medlow.  But  he  prevailed.  He  would  go.  In  the 
meantime  things  might  right  themselves. 

He  departed  the  following  morning,  leaving  Olivia  to 
a  new  sense  of  loneliness  and  unrest.  She  lived  con- 
stantly in  the  tense  moment,  catching  her  breath  at  the 
significance  of  its  possibilities.  Unbidden  and  hateful 
the  question  recurred:  if  positions  had  been  reversed; 
if  Blaise  had  been  the  lost  husband  and  Alexis  the  lover, 


366  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

would  Alexis  have  let  her  go?  Certainly  not  Alexis. 
And  yet  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  was  grateful  that  she 
had  come  scathless  through  the  moment. 

The  little  round  of  country  gaieties  went  on  and  caught 
her  up  in  its  mild  gyrations.  Mrs.  Woolcombe  deplored 
her  brother's  absence.  He  had  been  looking  forward 
to  the  social  life  with  Olivia,  especially  the  tennis  parties. 
It  was  wonderful  how  he  had  overcome  the  handicap  of 
his  one  arm;  the  effectual  service  he  had  perfected,  toss- 
ing up  the  ball  with  his  racket  and  smiting  it  at  the  dead 
point  of  ascent.  It  had  all  been  due  to  Olivia's  encour- 
agement the  previous  summer;  for  till  then  he  had  not 
played  for  years.  But  he  had  been  sadly  overworked. 
When  a  man  cannot  sleep  and  rises  up  in  the  morning 
with  a  band  of  iron  round  his  head,  it  is  obvious  that  he 
needs  a  change.  It  was  the  best  thing  for  Blaise,  un- 
doubtedly; but  it  must  be  dull  for  Olivia.  So  spake 
Mary  Woolcombe,  unaware  of  kisses  and  tense  moments. 

Olivia  said  to  Myra:  "This  is  an  idle,  meaningless  life. 
We'll  go  back  to  London  and  settle  down." 

"Will  life  mean  much  more  when  you  get  there?" 
asked  Myra. 

"I  can  do  something." 

"What?" 

"How  do  I  know?    Why  are  you  so  irritating,  Myra?" 

"It  isn't  me,"  said  Myra. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"A  woman  wants  a  man  to  look  after,"  said  Myra  in 
her  unimpassioned  way.  "If  she  can't  get  a  man  she 
wants  a  woman.  I've  got  you,  so  I'm  not  irritated.  You 
haven't  got  either,  so  you  are." 

Olivia  flushed  angrily  and  swerved  round  in  her  chair 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  367 

before  the  mirror  on  her  toilet-table — Myra  was  drying 
her  hair — as  she  had  dried  it  from  days  before  Olivia 
could  remember. 

"That's  a  liberty,  Myra,  which  you  oughtn't  to  have 
taken." 

"I  dare  say,  dearie,"  replied  Myra  unmoved,  "but  it's 
good  for  you  that  somebody  now  and  then  should  tell 
you  the  truth." 

"I  want  neither  man  nor  woman,"  Olivia  declared. 

Myra  gently  squared  her  mistress's  shoulders  to  the 
mirror  and  went  on  with  her  task. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said. 

"I  think  you're  hateful,"  said  Olivia. 

"Maybe.  But  I've  got  common-sense.  If  you  think 
you're  going  to  London  to  stand  for  Parliament  or  write 
poetry  and  get  it  printed  or  run  a  Home  for  Incurable 
Camels,  you're  mistaken,  dear.  And  you'll  have  no  truck 
with  women.  You've  never  had  a  woman  friend  in  the 
world — anyone  you'd  die  for." 

"Of  course  I  haven't,"  snapped  Olivia. 

"It's  a  man's  woman  you  are,"  continued  Myra. 
"You've  looked  after  men  ever  since  your  dear  mother 
was  taken  ill.  It's  what  God  meant  you  to  do.  It's  all 
you  can  do.  And  you  haven't  got  a  man  and  that's 
what's  making  you  unhappy." 

Olivia  sprang  from  her  chair,  looking  with  her  long 
black  hair  ruffled  and  frizzed  and  spreading  out  around 
her  warm  oval  face,  like  an  angry  sea-nymph  on  a  rock 
disputed  by  satyrs. 

"I  hate  men  and  everything  connected  with  them." 

"You  still  hate  your  husband?"  asked  Myra  looking  at 
her  with  cold  pale  eyes. 


368  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"I  loathe  him.  How  dare  you?  Haven't  I  forbidden 
you  to  mention  his  name?" 

"I  didn't  mention  his  name,"  said  Myra.  "But  if  you 
like,  I  won't  refer  to  him  again.  Sit  down  and  let  me 
put  on  the  electric  dryer.  Your  hair's  still  wringing  wet." 

She  yielded,  not  with  good  grace.  Myra  had  her  at 
her  mercy.  Dignity  counselled  instant  dismissal  of  Myra 
from  her  presence.  But  the  washing  and  drying  of  her 
long  thick  hair  had  ever  been  a  problem;  so  dignity  gave 
way  to  comfort. 

She  was  furious  with  Myra.  We  all  are  with  people 
who  confront  us  with  the  naked  truth  about  ourselves. 
That  was  all  she  was  fit  for;  all  that  life  had  taught  her; 
to  look  after  a  man.  She  stared  at  the  blatant  proposi- 
tion in  the  grimness  of  the  night-watches.  What  else,  in 
God's  name,  was  she  capable  of  doing  for  an  inch 
advancement  of  humanity?  She  had  gone  forth  long  ago 
— so  it  seemed — from  Medlow,  to  open  the  mysterious 
mysteries  of  the  world.  She  had  opened  them — and  all 
the  pearls,  good,  bad  and  indifferent,  were  men.  All  the 
ideals;  all  the  colour  and  music  and  gorgeous  edifices  of 
life;  all  the  world  vibration  of  thought  and  action  and 
joy  of  which  she  had  dreamed,  every  manifold  thrill  that 
had  run  through  her  being  from  feet  to  hair  on  that  first 
night  in  London  when  she  had  leaned  out  of  her  Victoria 
Street  flat  and  opened  her  young  soul  to  the  informing 
spirit  of  the  vast  city  of  mystery — the  whole  spiritual 
meaning,  nay,  the  whole  material  reason  for  her  existence, 
was  resolved  into  one  exquisitely  pure,  bafflingly  translu- 
cent in  its  mystery  of  shooting  flames,  utterly  elemental 
crystal  of  sex.  Sex,  in  its  supreme  purity;  but  sex  all  the 
same. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  369 

She  was  a  man's  woman.  It  was  at  once  a  glory  and 
a  degradation.  Myra  was  right.  What  woman,  in  the 
course  of  her  life,  had  she  cared  a  scrap  for?  Her 
mother.  Her  mother  was  a  religion.  And  men?  Her 
chastity  revolted.  When  had  she  sought  to  attract  men? 
Her  conscience  was  clear.  But  men  had  been  the  terror, 
the  interest,  the  delight  of  her  life  from  the  moment  she 
had  left  the  cloistral  walls  of  her  home.  And  even  before 
that,  on  a  different  plane,  had  she  not,  while  keeping 
house  for  father  and  brothers,  always  thought  in  terms 
of  man? 

And  now  she  was  doing  the  same.  The  emptiness  of 
her  prospective  life  in  London  appalled  her.  The  mad 
liar,  her  husband,  an  unseizable,  unknown  entity,  of 
whom  she  thought  with  shivering  repulsion,  was  away 
somewhere,  living  a  strange,  unveracious  life.  The 
soldier,  scholar  and  gentleman,  who  loved  her,  into  whose 
arms,  into  whose  life,  she  had  all  but  fallen,  had  fled, 
saving  her  from  perils.  Before  he  returned  she  must,  in 
decency  and  honour,  take  up  her  solitary  abode  elsewhere. 
Or  else  she  could  terminate  his  tenancy  of  "The  Towers" 
and  carry  on  an  old-maidish  life  in  Medlow  for  evermore. 
Anyway,  a  useless  sexless  thing  for  all  eternity. 

The  second  post  had  brought  her  some  letters,  a  few 
bills  and  receipts,  a  note  from  Janet  Philimore  with 
whom  she  kept  up  a  casual  correspondence,  and  a  long 
untidy  screed  from  Lydia.  Lydia  had  conceived  the  idea 
of  visiting  Medlow.  Her  father,  old  John  Freke,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  years,  was  ailing.  What  did  Olivia 
think  of  the  notion?  Olivia,  sitting  in  the  little  ivy-clad 


370  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  thought  less  of 
the  notion  than  of  the  amazing  lady.  To  ask  her,  an 
outsider,  whether  she  should  come  to  her  father's  bed  of 
sickness!  She  made  up  her  mind  to  write:  "Oh,  yes, 
come  at  once,  but  wear  the  thickest  of  black  veils,  so 
that  no  one  will  recognize  you."  Her  mind  wandered 
away  from  the  hypothetical  visit — London  and  Lydia 
again!  Just  where  she  was  when  she  started.  Life 
seemed  a  hopeless  muddle. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Myra's  voice  breaking  suddenly  on 
her  meditations.  She  looked  up  and  beheld  Myra  more 
than  usually  grave  and  cold.  "I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you. 
But  I've  just  had  a  letter.  He's  dead." 

Olivia,  with  a  shock  through  all  her  being,  started  to 
her  feet. 

"Dead.    My  husband?" 

"No,"  said  Myra.    "Mine." 

"Oh!"  said  Olivia  somewhat  breathless — and  sank  on 
the  bench  again.  She  recovered  herself  quickly. 

"I'm  sorry,  Myra.  But  after  all,  it's  a  merciful 
release." 

"God's  mercies  are  inscrutable,"  said  Myra. 

So,  thought  Olivia,  was  Myra's  remark. 

"I've  always  loved  him,  you  see,"  said  Myra.  "I  sup- 
pose you'll  have  no  objections  to  my  going  to  bury  him?" 

"My  dear  old  Myra,"  cried  Olivia.  "Of  course,  my 
dear,  you  can  go — go  whenever  you  like." 

"I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  it's  over,"  said  Myra. 

She  turned  and  walked  away,  and  Olivia  saw  her  lean 
and  unexpressive  shoulders  rise  as  though  a  sob  had 
shaken  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

OF  the  death  of  Myra  Stebbings's  husband  and 
of  her  second  appearance  in  Pendish  during  his 
sojourn  in  the  West  Country,  Triona  knew  noth- 
ing. Again  she  had  forbidden  her  sister-in-law  to  give 
him  any  information  as  to  her  doings.  Again  she  dis- 
claimed interest  in  the  young  man.  Nor  was  he  aware, 
a  week  after  the  funeral,  that  Myra,  who  had  stood  by 
the  graveside  in  the  pouring  rain,  and  had  insisted  on 
jogging  back  to  Pendish  wet  through,  in  the  undertaker's 
brougham,  lay  dangerously  ill  in  the  upstairs  bedroom 
of  the  little  Georgian  house.  The  increasing  business  of 
the  Quantock  Garage  diverted  his  energies  from  polite 
tramps  into  Pendish  to  enquire  into  Mrs.  Pettiland's 
state  of  health.  Also,  he  was  growing  morose,  his  soul 
feeding  on  itself,  and  beginning  to  develop  an  unwhole- 
some misanthropy.  Like  Hamlet,  man  didn't  delight 
him;  no,  nor  woman  neither.  When  not  working  in  the 
garage  or  driving  the  old  touring-car,  he  retired  to  brood 
in  his  loft  and  eschewed  the  company  of  his  kind. 

"You're  overdoing  it,"  said  Radnor,  a  kindly  person. 
"Why  not  go  away  on  a  holiday  and  have  a  change?" 

"Only  one  change  would  do  me  any  good,"  he  replied 
gloomily,  "and  that  would  be  to  get  out  of  this  partic- 
ularly vile  universe." 

Radnor  looked  round  his  well  ordered,  bustling  estab- 
lishment and  smiled. 

"It  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that." 

37i 


372  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Triona  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spanner  in  hand 
turned  to  the  car  he  was  doctoring,  without  a  reply. 

A  few  days  afterwards  Radnor  said: 

"We're  going  to  be  married  in  August,  and  I  don't 
mind  saying  it's  mostly  thanks  to  you." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Triona.  "I'll  stick  it  out 
till  then." 

"And  then?" 

"I'll  have  the  change  you've  been  talking  of." 

Radnor  laughed.  "You'll  let  me  have  a  bit  of  a 
honeymoon  first,  won't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Triona.  "You  can  have  your 
honeymoon. 

The  weakening  incentive  to  life  would  last  till  Sep- 
tember. He  would  make  it  last.  It  was  now  the  be- 
ginning of  June.  Three  months  or  so  more  wouldn't 
matter.  To  carry  on  a  meaningless  existence  further 
would  be  absurd.  Indeed,  it  would  be  immoral.  Of 
that,  for  some  time  past  he  had  convinced  himself. 

England  ran  motor-mad  that  summer.  It  awoke  to  find 
war  restrictions  removed,  roads  free  and  petrol  to  be 
had  for  the  buying.  In  its  eagerness  to  race  through  a 
beloved  land  closed  up  for  years  and  view  or  re-view 
historic  spots  of  loveliness,  and  otherwise  to  indulge  in 
its  national  vagabond  humour  it  cared  little  for  the  price 
of  petrol.  The  hiring  garages,  in  anything  like  tourist 
centres,  found  their  resources  strained.  Radnor  bought 
another  car,  and  still  had  more  orders  than  he  could 
execute.  He  drove  one  car  himself. 

It  was  a  soft  June  evening.  Triona  sat  at  the  wheel 
of  the  great  antiquated  touring-car  to  which  he  had  given 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  373 

its  new  lease  of  life,  driving  homewards  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Great  Junction  Town.  He  had  taken  a 
merry  party  that  day  some  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
through  the  tenderest  greenery  of  early  summer,  through 
dark  gorges  with  startling  shadows,  through  cool  lanes, 
over  hills  in  the  open  sunshine;  and,  in  the  sweetness  of 
the  evening,  he  had  put  them  down  at  the  place  whence 
they  had  started.  For  all  his  mood  of  despair,  he  had 
enjoyed  the  day.  The  poet  in  him  had  responded  to  the 
eternal  call  of  the  year's  life  laughing  in  its  gay  insolence 
of  youth.  Since  nine  in  the  morning  the  sweet  wind  of 
the  hills  had  swept  through  his  lungs  and  scenes  of  love- 
liness had  shimmered  before  his  eyes. 

Alone  at  the  wheel,  he  thought  of  the  passing  day  of 
beauty.  Was  it  not  worth  living — just  to  enjoy  it?  Was 
it  not  worth  living — just  to  translate  into  words,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  doing,  the  emotion  of  that  enjoyment? 
He  had  passed  through  a  beech  wood,  a  world  of  pale 
emerald,  like  fairy  seas,  above,  and  a  shimmer  of  blue- 
bells below  as  though  the  sky  had  been  laid  down  for  a 
carpet.  .  .  . 

He  drove  slowly  and  carefully.  The  car  had  done 
its  good  day's  work.  It  was  knocking  a  bit,  like  an  old 
horse  wheezing  in  protest  against  over-estimation  of  its 
enduring  powers.  He  had  tried  it  perhaps  too  high  to- 
day. He  loved  the  re-created  old  car,  as  though  it  were 
a  living  thing.  A  valiant  old  car,  which  had  raced  over 
awful  roads  in  Flanders.  It  was  a  crazy  irritation  that 
he  could  not  pat  it  into  comfort.  Nursing  it  with  the 
mechanician's  queer  tenderness,  he  came  to  the  straight 
mile,  near  home,  of  road  on  the  mountain  side,  with  its 
sheer  drop  into  the  valley,  ending  at  the  turn  known  as 


374  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

Hell's  Corner,  at  which  the  overwrought  doctor,  on  the 
night  of  mad  adventure,  had  lost  his  nerve.  Just  past 
the  corner  branched  the  secondary  road  to  Fanstead, 
for  the  great  road  swept  on  by  the  expiring  end  of  Pen- 
dish  village;  but  by  walking  from  Pendish,  as  he  had 
done  on  the  day  of  the  aforesaid  adventure,  through 
lanes  and  fields,  one  cut  off  a  great  bend  of  road  and 
struck  it  on  the  fair-mile  beyond  the  turn.  And  now  a 
few  hundred  yards  from  the  corner  the  engine  gave 
trouble.  He  descended  from  his  seat  and  opened  the 
bonnet.  He  discovered  a  simple  matter,  the  choking  of  a 
plug.  The  knocking,  he  knew  was  in  the  cardan  shaft. 
He  would  have  to  replace  the  worn  pin.  While  cleaning 
out  the  choked  plug  with  a  piece  of  wire  and  blowing 
through  it  to  clear  it  from  the  last  fragment  of  grit,  he 
wondered  how  long  it  would  take  to  have  the  spare  pin 
made.  He  was  going  out  again  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Could  he  risk  the  old  car?  To-morrow  he  would  take 
her  down  and  see  for  himself  the  full  extent  of  the  trouble. 
Meanwhile  he  screwed  the  plug  on  again,  shut  down  the 
bonnet,  cranked  up  the  starting  handle  and  jumped  up 
beside  the  wheel. 

But  just  as  he  put  in  the  low  gear,  his  eyes  were  riveted 
on  a  familiar  figure  some  twenty  yards  away,  walking 
towards  him.  For  a  moment  or  two  he  remained  par- 
alysed, while  the  old-fashioned  gears  crunched  horribly. 
There  she  advanced  slim,  erect,  in  Tussore  silk  coat  and 
skirt,  a  flash  of  red  bow  at  the  opening  of  her  blouse. 
The  car  began  to  move.  At  that  instant  their  eyes  met. 
Olivia  staggered  back,  and  he  read  in  her  bewildered  gaze 
the  same  horror  he  had  last  seen  in  her  eyes. 

What  she  was  doing  here,  on  this  strip  of  remote  road, 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  375 

he  could  not  understand.  Obviously  she  had  not  ex- 
pected to  find  him,  for  she  looked  at  him  as  though  he 
were  some  awful  ghost.  He  changed  gear,  went  full 
speed  ahead  and  passed  her  in  a  flash.  Then  suddenly, 
the  command  of  doom  shot  through  his  brain.  This  was 
the  end.  Now  was  the  end  that  should  have  come,  had 
he  not  been  a  coward,  months  ago.  He  deliberately 
swerved  off  the  road  and  went  hurtling  over  the  hill-side. 

Olivia  staring,  wide-eyed,  wondering,  at  the  racing  car, 
saw  it  happen.  It  was  no  accident.  It  was  deliberate. 
Her  brain  reeled  at  the  sudden  and  awful  horror.  She 
swayed  to  the  bank  and  fainted. 

A  two-seater  car,  a  young  man  and  woman  in  it,  came 
upon  her  a  few  moments  later  and  drew  up.  The  woman 
ministered  to  her  and  presently  she  revived. 

"There  has  been  a  horrible  accident,"  she  explained 
haggardly.  "A  car  went  over — you  can  see  the  wheel 
marks — Oh  my  God!" 

She  pointed.  A  column  of  smoke  was  rising  from  the 
valley  into  the  still  evening  air.  She  scrambled  to  un- 
steady feet,  and  started  to  run.  The  young  man  de- 
tained her. 

"The  car  will  take  us  quicker.  Maggie,  you  drive. 
I'll  stand  on  the  footboard." 

They  swiftly  covered  the  hundred  yards  or  so  to  the 
scene  of  the  catastrophe.  And  there  thirty  feet  below  in 
the  ravine  the  old  car  was  burning  amid  the  heavy  vapour 
of  petrol  smoke. 

"Quick,"  cried  Olivia,  "let  us  get  down!  He  may  still 
be  alive." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "Not  much  chance, 
poor  devil." 


376  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Did  you  know  him?"  asked  the  lady. 

"It  was  my  husband/'  cried  Olivia  tragic-eyed. 

They  all  plunged  down  the  slope,  the  young  man  going 
straight  in  the  ruts  of  the  leaping  car.  Olivia,  after  a 
fall  or  two,  ran  gropingly  to  side  levels,  catching  hold  of 
bushes  to  aid  her  descent,  her  brain  too  scorched  with 
the  terror  of  that  which  lay  below,  for  coherent  thought. 

Again  her  light,  high-heeled  shoes  tripped  her  on  the 
smooth  grass  and  she  slithered  down  a  few  yards.  And 
then,  as  she  steadied  herself  once  more  on  her  feet,  she 
heard  a  voice  from  behind  a  clump  of  gorse: 

"Just  my  damned  luck!" 

Her  knees  shook  violently.  She  wanted  to  shriek,  but 
she  controlled  herself  and,  staggering  round  the  gorse 
bush,  came  upon  Alexis,  seated  on  a  hummock,  his  head 
between  his  hands.  He  looked  up  at  her  stupidly;  and 
she,  with  outspread  fingers  on  panting  bosom: 

"Thank  God,  you're  not  dead." 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  said  he,  rising  to 
his  feet. 

The  young  woman  of  the  car  who  had  been  following 
Olivia  more  or  less  in  her  descent,  appeared  from  behind 
the  bush. 

She,  too,  thanked  God.  He  had  been  saved  by  a  mir- 
acle. How  had  he  escaped? 

"A  providence  which  looks  after  idiots  caused  me  to 
be  hurled  out  of  the  car  at  the  first  bump.  I  fell  into 
the  gorse.  I'm  not  in  the  least  bit  hurt.  Please  don't 
worry  about  me." 

"You  must  let  us  drive  you  home — I'll  call  my  hus- 
band," said  the  young  woman. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  he,  "but  I'm  perfectly 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  377 

sound  and  I'd  rather  walk;  but  this  lady  seems  to  have 
had  a  shock  and  no  doubt " 

The  young  woman,  perplexed,  turned  to  Olivia.  "You 
said  this — gentleman — "  for  Alexis  stood  trim  in  brass- 
buttoned  and  legginged  chauffeur's  livery — "you  said  he 
was  your  husband." 

"A  case  of  mistaken  identity*"  he  replied  suavely. 

Olivia,  her  brain  in  a  whirl,  said  nothing.  The  young 
woman  advanced  a  few  steps  and  coo-eed  to  the  young 
man  who  had  just  reached  the  ravine.  As  he  turned  on 
her  hail,  she  halloed  the  tidings  that  all  was  well. 

"He'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  said. 

They  stood  an  embarrassed  trio.  Alexis  explained 
how  the  steering-rod,  which  had  given  him  trouble  all 
day,  had  suddenly  snapped.  It  had  been  the  affair  of  a 
moment.  As  for  the  car,  it  was  merely  a  kind  of  land 
ark  fitted  with  a  prehistoric  internal  combustion  engine. 
Insured  above  its  value.  The  proprietor  would  be  de- 
lighted to  hear  the  end  of  it. 

The  young  man  joined  them,  out  of  breath.  Explana- 
tions had  to  be  given  da  capo.  Again  Good  Samaritan 
offers  to  put  their  two-seater  at  the  disposal  of  the  der- 
elicts. With  one  in  the  back  seat  they  could  crowd  three 
in  front.  They  were  going  to  Cullenby,  twenty  miles  on, 
but  a  few  miles  out  of  their  way,  if  need  be,  were  neither 
here  nor  there.  A  very  charming,  solicitous,  well-run 
young  couple.  Olivia  scarcely  knew  whether  to  shriek  at 
them  to  go  away,  or  to  beg  them  to  remain  and  continue 
to  save  a  grotesque  situation. 

Presently  Triona  repeated  his  thanks  and  declined  the 
proffered  lift.  Walking  would  do  him  all  the  good  in 
the  world;  would  steady  his  nerves  after  his  calamitous 


378  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

bump.  The  young  man  eyed  him  queer ly.  It  was  a 
strange  word  for  a  chauffeur. 

"But  if  you  would  take  this  lady,"  said  Triona  again. 

Olivia  recovered  her  wits. 

"I  will  walk  too,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'm  only  a  mile 
from  home.  And  this  gentleman  is  really  my  husband." 

"If  we  can  really  do  nothing  more ?"  The  young 

man  raised  his  hat. 

"A  thousand  thanks  for  all  your  kindness,"  said  Olivia. 

The  very  mystified  young  couple  left  them  and  re- 
mounted the  hill. 

The  subjects  of  their  mystification  stood  for  a  while 
in  silence.  Presently  Olivia,  whose  limbs  not  yet  re- 
covered from  the  shock  trembled  so  that  her  knees 
seemed  to  give  her  no  support,  said: 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  sit  down  for  a  little?" 

"As  you  will,"  said  Alexis,  seating  himself  on  his  hum- 
mock. 

She  cast  herself  down  on  the  slope  and  closed  her  eyes 
for  a  moment. 

"You  did  that  on  purpose,"  she  said  at  last.  "You 
don't  suppose  I  believe  the  story  of  the  broken  steering- 
rod?" 

He  smiled  with  some  bitterness.  Fate  was  for  ever 
against  him.  The  moment  they  met  in  this  extravagant 
way,  there  started  up  the  barrier  of  a  lie. 

"I  couldn't  very  well  scare  those  young  folks  with  a 
confession  of  attempted  suicide,  could  I?  After  all,  the 
naked  truth  may  at  times  be  positively  indecent." 

"Then  you  intended  to  do  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he.  "But  it  ended,  like  every  other 
Great  Adventure  I've  attempted  in  my  life,  in  burlesque. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  379 

I  assure  you,  that  when  I  found  myself  pitched  into  this 
clump  of  gorse  and  able  to  pick  myself  up  with  nothing 
worse  than  a  gasping  for  breath,  I — well — the  humiliation 
of  it! — I  cursed  the  day  I  was  born." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  she  asked. 

She  had  scarcely  regained  balance.  The  situation 
seemed  unreal.  But  a  few  minutes  ago  he  had  been  far 
from  her  thoughts,  which  were  concerned  with  the  woman 
to  whose  possibly  dying  bed  she  had  been  summoned, 
with  the  dreary  days  at  Medlow  now  that  Blaise  Olifant 
had  gone,  with  the  still  beauty  of  the  hills  and  their 
purple  sunset  shadows.  And  now,  here  she  was,  alone 
with  him,  remote  from  the  world,  conversing  as  dispas- 
sionately as  though  he  had  returned  from  the  dead — as 
indeed  he  had  almost  returned.  At  her  question,  he 
threw  his  chauffeur's  cap  on  the  grass  and  passed  his 
hand  over  his  hair.  The  familiar  gesture,  the  familiar 
nervous  brown  hand  brought  her  a  step  nearer  to  reality. 

"If  you  can't  guess,  it  is  useless  for  me  to  tell  you," 
he  said.  "You  wouldn't  believe  me." 

He  took  out  a  cigarette.  She  noted  a  trembling  of 
the  fingers. 

"Do  you  mind?"  She  nodded,  he  lit  the  cigarette.  "I 
thought  here,  at  any  rate,  I  was  hidden  from  you  for 
the  rest  of  my  life.  It  wouldn't  have  been  very  long 
anyway.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  some  day  soon  to  set 
you  free  of  me — and  to-day  or  to-morrow — what  did  it 
matter?  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  that  either.  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  believe  a  word  I  say.  I  gave  you  to 
understand,  that  I  was  in  Poland — you  find  me  here. 
When  did  Myra  tell  you  I  was  here?" 

Returning  sanity  had  corrected  his  first  mad  impres- 


380  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

sion.  How  could  she  be  a  mile  from  Pendish  if  she  had 
not  heard  from  Myra?  But  she  regarded  him  open- 
mouthed. 

"Myra?  What  has  Myra  to  do  with  it?  Of  course 
I  had  no  conception  you  were  here?  I  knew  you  were 
not  in  Poland.  A  man — a  Pole — I  forget  his  name — 
wrote  to  Major  Olifant,  last  year,  wondering  what  had 
become  of  you.  You  had  never  joined  him " 

"Boronowski,"  said  Triona. 

"That  was  the  name " 

"And  you  took  it  for  granted  I  had  lied  to  him  too." 

Her  eyes  dropped  beneath  his  half  sad,  half  ironic  gaze, 
She  made  a  little  despairing  gesture. 

"What  would  you  have?" 

"And  Myra  never  told  you  anything  about  me?" 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  she  said, 
straightening  herself:  "Where  does  Myra  come  in?" 

"That's  rather  a  long  story.  I  should  prefer  her  to 
tell  it  to  you.  Myra  knows  everything  about  me  since 
the  day  after  you  received  my  last  letter  over  a  year 
ago." 

She  leaned  forward,  an  angry  spot  burning  on  both 
cheeks.  "Myra  has  been  hiding  you  here  all  the  time 
and  has  told  me  nothing  about  it!" 

"She  has  her  excellent  reasons.  She  will  tell  you  in  a 
very  few  words " 

"She  can't.  At  any  rate  not  now.  She  has  been  very 
ill  with  pneumonia.  They  thought  she  was  dying  and 
sent  for  me.  Why  otherwise  should  I  be  here?" 

"Are  you  staying  at  Mrs.  Pettiland's?" 

"Of  course." 

"I  didn't  even  know  Myra  was   in   Pendish — I'm. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  381 

grieved  to  hear  she's  ill.  I'm  afraid  I've  neglected  Mrs. 
Pettiland  of  late.  She  was  very  kind  to  me."  He 
paused  and  added  with  a  smile,  "I  see  Myra's  loyalty. 
She  forbade  Mrs.  Pettiland  to  mention  the  name  of  the 
young  man  called  Briggs.  You've  never  heard  of  such 
a  person  at  Pendish." 

"Not  a  word,"  said  Olivia.  "But  I  shall  never  for- 
give Myra.  Never,  never,"  she  cried  indignantly.  "To 
fool  me  like  that!" 

He  caught  sudden  hope  from  the  flash  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"Would  you  have  liked  to  know  where  I  was?" 

"I  hate  duplicity.  I  thought  that  Myra,  at  least — my 
God!  Is  there  anybody  in  the  world  one  can  trust?" 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  him.  "What  are  you  doing  in 
that  absurd  livery?" 

"I've  been  earning  my  living  in  it,  since  last  August. 
I've  done  it  before.  It's  an  honester  way  than  many 
others." 

"Forgive  me,  if  I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  still 
half-bewildered.  "You  have  no  need  to  earn  your  liv- 
ing by  driving  a  car — a  common  chauffeur — unless "" 

She  checked  herself  with  a  little  gasp — but  his  quick 
brain  divined  her  impulsive  thought. 

"Unless  I  had  taken  to  drink  and  gone  to  the  bad,  et- 
cetera, etcetera " 

She  interrupted  him  quickly.  "No,  no.  I  never 
thought  that.  It  was  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.  But  on 

what  other  hypothesis ?  You've  still  your  brain, 

your  talent,  your  genius.  Your  pen " 

"Which  is  mightier  than  the  wheel,"  he  remarked. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  didn't  go  to  Poland.  Perhaps 
you'll  explain.  Anyhow  you  didn't.  You  came  here — to 


382  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

the  absolute  quiet  of  the  country.  Why  haven't  you  gone 
on  writing?" 

"For  the  simple  reason,"  said  he,  "that  Alexis  Triona 
and  all  his  works  are  dead.  Washed  out  from  the  Book 
of  Life.  That  side  of  me  is  all  over  and  done  with.  You 
who  know  everything,  can't  you  understand?" 

She  caught  the  note  of  truth  in  his  words  and  gradu- 
ally there  began  to  dawn  on  her  the  immensity  of  his 
artist's  sacrifice. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you're  never  going  to  write  again?" 

"Never,"  said  he.  "Does  this  look  like  it?"  and  he 
touched  the  brass  buttons  on  his  livery. 

She  weakened  through  impatience  at  his  aloofness, 
craving  to  know  all  that  had  happened  to  him,  to  get  to 
the  roots  of  Myra's  mysterious  intrigue.  His  fatalistic 
attitude  was  maddening.  The  whole  crazy  combination 
of  tragedy  and  farce  that  had  set  them  down  in  the 
gorse-enclosed  hollow  of  the  hill-side,  as  though  they 
were  the  only  people  on  God's  earth,  was  maddening. 
The  brass  buttons  were  maddening.  She  flung  sudden 
arms  out  wide. 

"For  God's  sake  tell  me  everything  that  has  happened 
to  you." 

"If  you'll  believe  it,"  said  he. 

She  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  feeling  as  though  she  were 
under  his  rebuke,  and  gazed  over  the  valley  at  the  hills 
black  beneath  the  dying  green  and  faded  orange  of  the 
sunset.  The  thin  smoke  of  the  burned  car  mounted  into 
the  windless  air  faint  with  the  smell  of  petrol  fumes  and 
scorched  woodwork.  And  Triona  looked  down  too  and 
saw  the  end  of  the  creation  of  his  resurrection.  He 
pointed  to  it. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  383 

"That  was  one  of  my  little  dreams,"  he  said  gently. 
"A  sort  of  rat  trap  on  wheels — the  most  hopeless  box  of 
antiquated  imbecility  you  can  imagine.  I  took  it  into 
my  head  to  recreate  it.  For  a  time  I  devoted  my  soul  to 
it — and  I  made  it  a  thing  of  life  and  speed  and  obedience. 
And  there  it  lies  dead,  a  column  of  smoke,  like  all  dreams 
and,  all  my  deliberate  fault.  Every  system  of  philos- 
ophy, since  the  world  began,  has  overlooked  the  ironical 
symbolism  of  life.  That's  one;  and  my  dream — smoke." 

She  fell  under  the  spell  of  his  voice,  although  her 
brain  revolted.  Yet  his  note  rang  sincere  in  her  heart — 
she  knew  not  what  to  say.  The  sunset  colours  over  the 
ridge  of  hills  died  into  iron  blue  of  the  sky.  A  faint 
breeze  stirred.  She  shivered  with  cold  in  her  thin  Tus- 
sore silk.  He,  watching  her,  saw  the  shiver. 

"You're  cold,  you  must  be  getting  back."    He  rose. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  before  he  could  help  her  to  rise. 

"I'll  see  you  to  Mrs.  Pettiland's." 

They  scrambled  to  the  high  road  above  them,  and  be- 
gan to  walk,  in  constrained  silence.  Suddenly  she 
cried: 

"You've  hurt  yourself.  You're  limping  dreadfully. 

You  told  me  you  were  unhurt "  She  clutched  his 

arm.  "You  can't  go  on  like  this." 

"I'll  go  on  like  this,"  said  he,  thrilling  under  her  touch, 
"to  the  day  of  my  death.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  this 
evening's  entertainment.  I  was  smashed  up  by  a  motor- 
lorry  over  a  year  ago,  as  Myra  will  tell  you.  That's 
what  knocked  me  out  of  Poland." 

She  echoed  his  words —  "Smashed  up  by  a  motor- 
lorry? —  It  might  have  killed  you — and  I  should  have 
never  known." 


384  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"Myra  would  have  told  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it 
very  nearly  did  kill  me." 

She  turned  her  head  away  with  a  shudder. 

"And  just  now " 

"I  ought  to  have  waited  till  I  had  turned  the  corner — " 
he  pointed  out  the  bend  a  few  yards  in  front  of  them. 
"Hell's  Corner,  they  call  it  hereabouts.  Then  you 
wouldn't  have  seen  me  go  over,  and  I  might  have  had 
better  luck." 

He  saw  her  turn  deadly  white,  reel,  and  he  tried  to 
support  her;  but  she  slipped  away  from  him  and  sat  by 
the  wayside.  She  thought  she  was  going  to  faint  again. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  talk  like  that.  It's  inhuman. 
It's  unlike  you.  Even  if  you  were  a  stranger  it  would  be 
horrible." 

"I'm  only  apologising  for  my  existence,"  he  said. 
"Fate  has  been  against  me — but,  believe  me,  I  have  done 
my  best." 

After  a  while  she  rose,  declaring  herself  better,  and 
they  struck  off  the  road  down  the  twisting  lane  that  led  to 
Pendish.  The  air  was  fragrant  in  the  dusk. 

"Tell  me  about  that  accident — how  Myra  came  to 
know  of  it.  I  suppose  you  sent  her  word?" 

"Perhaps  when  you  have  talked  to  Myra,  you'll  credit 
me  at  least  with  sincere  intentions.  If  I  had  informed 
her,  it  would  have  been  an  indirect  appeal  to  you." 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  appeal  to  me 
direct,"  said  Olivia  tonelessly.  "I'm  not  devoid  of  com- 
mon humanity." 

"I  couldn't  have  done  that,"  he  said  gently.  "I  lay 
unconscious  for  weeks.  When  I  came  to  my  senses  I 
found  Myra  had  come  the  second  morning  I  was  in 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  385 

hospital.  I  had  better  begin  with  my  meeting  with  the 
Pole,  Boronowski — it's  a  simple  matter." 

To  him,  walking  with  this  lost  wife  of  his  dreams,  in 
the  lovers'  lane,  the  hour  seemed  fantastic.  His  voice 
sounded  unreal  in  his  ears.  His  heart  lying  heavy  as 
lead  within  him  was  not  the  heart  that  he  had  thought 
would  beat  furiously  at  the  ravishing  sight  of  her.  He 
told  his  story  badly;  just  the  salient  facts,  uninspired  by 
the  dramatic  instinct  which  had  made  him  colour  so 
vividly  the  narration,  a  year  ago,  to  Mrs.  Pettiland,  of 
his  ridiculous  adventure.  This  he  barely  sketched.  For 
truth's  sake  he  must  tell  her  of  the  robbery  and  account 
for  his  penniless  condition.  It  was  not  himself  talking. 
It  was  not  Olivia  to  whom  he  talked.  One  stranger's 
personality  was  talking  through  him  to  another's.  At 
the  end  of  the  tale: 

"You  have  changed  greatly,"  she  said. 

"That's  very  possible."  There  was  a  pause.  He  con- 
tinued. "And  you?  Forgive  me.  I  haven't  even  asked 
whether  you  are  well " 

"Oh,  I've  been  all  right.  I  spent  the  winter  abroad, 
and  now  I'm  staying  with  Mrs.  Woolcombe  at  'The 
Towers.'  Major  Olifant  is  away." 

They  came  up  suddenly  against  the  wicket-gate  of 
Mrs.  Pettiland's  garden.  A  light  shone  through  the  yet 
undrawn  curtains  in  his  old  bedroom.  He  raised  an 
enquiring  hand. 

"Myra?" 

"Yes.  I'm  in  Mrs.  Pettiland's  room  in  the  front.  She 
would  give  it  up  to  me.  I've  been  helping  to  nurse — as 
well  as  I  can.  I've  been  in  all  day.  That's  why  I  came 
out  for  a  walk  this  evening." 


386  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"You  must  be  tired." 

"I  am." 

He  waited,  hoping  against  hope,  for  a  word  revoking 
his  sentence.  None  came.  The  steel  sinew  that  ran 
through  him,  and  was  answerable  for  all  his  accomplish- 
ment, stiffened.  He  would  make  no  appeal  dd  misericor- 
diam.  He  had  suffered  enough  in  expiation.  He  had 
come  to  the  end  of  his  tether.  For  pity  masking  the  last 
year's  hatred  and  contempt  he  had  no  use.  He  opened 
the  gate  for  her.  She  passed  in  and  he  closed  it  and  the 
click  of  the  latch  sounded  like  the  crack  of  finality;  for 
Olivia,  taken  almost  unawares,  as  for  Triona.  They 
stood  for  a  while,  the  wooden  barrier  between  them,  in 
the  gathering  darkness. 

Impulsively  she  exclaimed:  "We  can't  part  like  this, 
with  a  thousand  things  unexplained." 

"I'm  at  your  orders,  Olivia,"  he  replied. 

She  caught  her  breath  and  stiffened.  "We  must  talk 
to-morrow — when  we  have  both  recovered." 

"I'll  be  here  any  hour  you  name,"  said  Alexis.  Rad- 
nor and  his  garage  could  go  to  the  devil. 

"Nine  o'clock?" 

"Nine  o'clock,"  said  he.    "Good  night,  Olivia." 

"Wait." 

The  memory  of  the  scandal  crashed  down  on  her.  .  .  . 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  now — the  night  may  bring 
counsel — I'm  in  a  terrible  position.  Wedderburn  and 
Onslow — you  remember?" 

"I  do,"  he  said. 

She  told  him  rapidly  of  her  pledge. 

"It  doesn't  matter  a  scrap  to  me,  but  it's  a  damnable 
thing  for  you,"  said  he. 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  387 

"What  answer  would  you  make?" 

"A  clean  breast  of  everything.  Could  you  wish  me  to 
do  anything  else?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.     "Give  me  time  to  think." 

"My  time  is  yours,  Olivia." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  irresolute.  There  was  a 
question  she  wished  to  put,  but  the  thought  of  it  made  her 
feel  sick  and  faint  again. 

"You'll  not  do  anything  foolish,  till  I  see  you?" 

"Nor  anything  wise,"  said  he.     "I  promise." 

Again  there  came  between  them  a  long  embarrassed 
silence.  At  last 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Good  night,  Olivia." 

She  flung  an  angry  hand  in  the  darkness  and  slipped 
away  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MRS.  PETTILAND  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  She  beamed  rosily  beneath  the  gas 
jet. 

"Myra  is  so  much  better,  Madam,  after  her  sleep. 
The  doctor  came  while  you  were  out.  I'm  to  make  her 
some  chicken  broth." 

Olivia  mounted  the  stairs  and  entered  the  sick-room. 

"Well  dearie?" 

She  turned  to  the  gaunt  waxen  face  on  the  pillow. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  the  doctor's  good  report." 

She  forced  herself  to  linger,  speaking  the  commonplaces 
of  the  sick-room.  Then  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"I'm  dead  tired,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  to  bed.  Nurse 
ought  to  be  here  soon.  Have  you  everything  you  want 
for  the  night?" 

Myra  said  in  her  even  tones:  "Have  you  everything 
you  want  for  the  night?"  And  at  Olivia's  quick  glance 
of  enquiry:  "You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost.  You 
have.  I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  didn't  want  them  to  send 
for  you,  but  I  was  too  ill  to  stop  them." 

Olivia  could  not  wreak  her  anger  yet  on  the  frail 
woman.  But  in  her  heart  burned  a  furious  indignation. 
She  controlled  her  voice,  and  said  as  gently  as  she  could: 

"Why  have  you  left  me  in  ignorance  for  the  past 
year?" 

"I  was  biding  my  time,"  said  Myra.  "I  was  waiting 
for  a  sign  and  a  token." 

388 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  389 

"From  me?" 

"From  you,  dearie.  I  had  him  here  in  the  hollow  of 
my  hand.  If  you  had  wanted  him,  I  could  have  given 
him  to  you.  But  you  didn't  want  him — so  you  said. 
I  wasn't  so  sure."  She  stretched  her  thin  hand  on  the 
blanket,  but  Olivia  stood,  too  much  enwrapped  in  her 
thoughts  to  notice  the  appeal.  "When  I  first  saw  him 
in  hospital  I  hoped  that  he  would  die  and  set  you  free. 
But  when  I  saw  him  convalescent,  my  heart  was  full 
of  pity  for  him,  and  I  repented  of  the  sin  of  committing 
murder  in  my  heart.  And  when  I  heard  from  my  sister 
in-law  that  he  was  facing  life  like  a  brave  man,  I 
wondered  whether  I  had  been  wrong  and  whether  you 
had  been  wrong.  If  I  say  something  to  you,  will  you  be 
angry  with  me?" 

Olivia  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Say  anything  you 
like." 

The  weak,  even  voice  went  on.  "If  Major  Olifant 
hadn't  left  us,  I  should  have  told  you." 

Olivia  leaped  at  the  thrust,  her  cheeks  flaming. 

"Myra!     How  dare  you?" 

The  thin  lips  parted  in  a  half  smile. 

"Have  you  ever  known  me  not  to  dare  anything  for 
your  good?" 

Myra,  with  all  the  privileges  of  illness,  had  her  at  a 
disadvantage.  Olivia  was  silenced.  She  unpinned  her 
hat  and  threw  it  on  a  chair  and  sat  by  the  bed-side. 

"I  see  that  you  acted  for  the  best,  Myra." 

Not  only  her  cheeks,  but  her  body  flamed  at  what 
seemed  now  the  humiliating  allusion.  Myra  was  fully 
aware,  if  not  of  the  actual  kiss — oh,  no — nothing  horrible 
of  servant's  espionage  in  Myra — at  any  rate  of  the  emo- 


390  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

tionality  in  which  it  had  culminated — on  her  part  sex, 
sense,  the  unexpected  thrill,  the  elemental  between  man 
and  woman,  the  hunger  for  she  knew  not  what — but  su- 
perficial, tearing  at  her  nerves,  but  never,  oh,  never  touch- 
ing the  bed-rock  of  her  spiritual  being.  A  great  pas- 
sionate love  for  Blaise,  she  knew,  Myra  with  her  direct 
vision,  would  have  understood.  For  the  assurance  of  her 
life's  happiness  Myra  would  have  sacrificed  her  hope  of 
eternal  salvation. 

But  the  worn  woman  who  had  had  but  one's  week's 
great  fulfilment  of  love  in  her  life,  knew  what  love  meant, 
and  she  had  sounded  the  shallows  of  her  pitiful  love — 
if  love  it  could  be  called — for  Blaise  Olifant;  and  now, 
in  her  sad,  fatalistic  way  she  shewed  her  the  poor  mark- 
ings of  the  lead. 

"So  you  have  seen  him?"  asked  Myra  quietly. 

"Yes  I've  seen  him.    God  knows  how  you  know." 

"Well?" 

Her  overstrained  soul  gave  way.  She  broke  into  un- 
controllable crying  and  sobbing,  her  little  dark  head  on 
the  blanket  by  Myra's  side.  And  after  a  little  came  in- 
coherent words. 

"I've  lost  him —  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more — 
He  hates  me —  He  tried  to  kill  himself  when  he  saw 
me —  He  was  driving  a  car  and  put  it  over  a  precipice — 
Thank  God — a  miracle — he  wasn't  hurt —  But  he  might 
have  killed  himself —  He  meant  to —  And  it's  all  your 
fault — all  your  fault —  If  only  you  had  told  me.  .  .  ." 

Myra  put  her  thin  hand  on  the  dear  dark  hair  and 
caressed  it  till  the  paroxysm  was  over. 

"I  loved  a  thing  that  was  scarcely  a  man  till  the  day 
of  his  death,  for  I  had  memories,  dearie,  of  him  when 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  391 

he  was  a  man  to  be  loved.  You've  got  a  living  man  for 
a  husband.  And  you  loved  yours  as  much  as  I  loved 
mine.  And  he's  a  living  and  suffering  man.  Go  to 
him — "  her  hand  still  played  feebly  caressing  the  black 
mass  of  her  hair.  "Fate  has  brought  you  together  again. 
He's  your  man,  whom  you  vowed  to  help  in  sickness  or  in 
health.  I  kept  mine  in  sickness.  Thank  God,  your  man's 
sickness  is  nothing  like  mine.  Go  to  him,  dearie.  Hum- 
ble yourself  if  need  be  ...  I've  been  very  ill.  I've 
thought  and  thought  and  thought — I've  an  idea  that  ill- 
ness clears  one's  brain — and  all  my  thoughts  have  been 
for  you.  For  me  there's  nothing  left.  I've  thought  of 
him  and  you.  I've  thought  of  what  he  has  done  and 
what  you  have  done —  And,  with  all  his  faults,  he's  a 
bigger  human  being  than  you  are,  dearie.  Go  to  him." 

Olivia  raised  a  tragic  face. 

"How  can  I?     He  doesn't  want  me." 

"A  man  doesn't  try  to  kill  himself  for  a  woman  he 
doesn't  want.  You  had  better  go  to  him." 

And  Olivia  went.  She  slipped  out  of  the  house  at 
eleven  o'clock,  after  a  couple  of  hours  of  wrestling  with 
ugly  and  vain  devils.  Who  was  she,  after  all?  What  had 
she  done  to  add  a  grain  to  the  world's  achievement? 
What  had  she  found  in  her  adventure  into  the  world  that 
had  been  worth  the  having  save  the  love  of  the  man  that 
was  her  husband?  Many  phases  of  existence  had  passed 
procession-wise  through  her  life.  All  hollows  and  shams. 
The  Lydian  galley,  with  its  Mavennas  and  Bobby  Quin- 
tons.  The  mad  Blenkirons.  The  gentle  uninspiring 
circle  of  little  Janet  Philimore.  The  literary  and  artistic 
society  for  the  few  months  of  Alexis's  lionization — pleas- 
ant, but  superficial,  always  leaving  her  with  the  sense 


392  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

of  having  fallen  far  short  of  a  communion  that  might 
have  been.  Nothing  satisfying  but  the  needs  and  the 
childish  wants  and  the  work  and  the  uplifting  spirit  of 
the  one  man.  And  after  the  great  parting  what  had  there 
been?  Her  life  in  Medlow  devoid  of  all  meaning — 
Her  six  months  travel — a  feeding  of  self  to  no  purpose. 
An  existence  of  negativity.  Blaise  Olifant.  She  flamed, 
conscious  of  one  thing  at  last  positive,  and  positive  for  ill. 
She  had  played  almost  deliberately  with  fire.  Otherwise 
why  had  she  gone  back  to  Medlow?  She  had  brought  un- 
happiness  to  a  very  noble  gentleman.  It  had  been  in  his 
power,  as  a  man,  to  sweep  her  off  her  feet  in  a  weak  hour 
of  clamouring  sex.  He  had  spared  her — and  she  now  was 
unutterably  grateful.  For  she  had  never  loved  him. 
She  could  not  love  him.  His  long  straight  nose.  She 
grew  half  hysterical.  Even  when  he  had  kissed  her  she 
had  been  conscious  of  that  long  straight  nose.  She  with- 
ered at  the  thought. 

She  slipped  out  of  the  house  into  the  soft  night.  Pend- 
ish,  with  its  double  line  of  low,  whitewashed,  thatched 
cottages,  one  a  deep  shadow,  the  other  clear  in  the 
moonlight,  lay  as  still  as  a  ghostly  village  of  the  middle 
ages.  The  echo  of  her  light  footsteps  frightened  her. 
Surely  windows  would  fly  open  and  heads  peer  out 
challenging  the  disturber  of  peace. 

She  was  going  to  him.  Why,  she  scarcely  knew.  Per- 
haps through  obedience  to  Myra.  Myra's  bloodless  lips, 
working  in  the  waxen,  immobile  face  lit,  if  dull  glimmer 
could  be  called  light,  by  the  cold  china  blue  eyes,  had 
uttered  words  little  less  than  oracular.  Myra  had  been 
waiting  for  a  sign  or  a  token  from  her  that  had  never 
come.  She  walked  through  the  splendid  silence  of  the 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  393 

country  road,  beneath  the  radiance  of  a  moon  above  the 
hills  illuminating  a  mystery  of  upland  and  vale  shrouded 
in  the  vaporous  garments  of  the  land  asleep.  Hurrying 
along  the  white  ribbon  of  road  she  was  but  a  little  dark 
dot  on  the  surface  of  a  serenely  scornful  universe. 

She  was  going  to  him.  He  was  her  man.  All  that  she 
knew  of  the  meaning  of  existence  came  from  him.  Moon- 
light and  starlight  and  the  mystery  of  the  night  shimmer- 
ing through  its  veil  of  enchantment  faded  from  her  eyes. 
She  felt  nervous  arms  around  her  and  kisses  on  her  lips, 
and  she  heard  him  speaking  the  winged  words  of  imagina- 
tion, lifting  her  into  his  world  of  genius. 

"A  man  doesn't  try  to  kill  himself  for  a  woman  he 
doesn't  want." 

So  spake  Myra.  Olivia  walked,  the  dull  tones  in  which 
the  words  were  uttered  thudding  in  her  ears.  It  was  her 
one  hope  of  salvation.  Kill  himself!  This  was  not  a 
falsehood.  She  had  seen  the  act  with  her  own  horror- 
stricken  eyes.  She  remembered  a  phrase  of  Blaise  Oli- 
f ant's:  "He  is  being  blackmailed  by  one  lie." 

She  realized,  with  sudden  shock,  her  insignificant  lone- 
liness in  the  midst  of  this  vast  moonlit  silence  of  the 
earth.  In  presence  of  the  immensities  she  was  of  no  ac- 
count. For  the  first  time  she  became  aware  of  her  own 
failure.  She  had  been  weighed  in  the  balance  of  her 
love  for  her  husband  and  had  been  found  wanting.  In 
the  hour  of  his  bitter  trial,  she  had  failed  him.  In  the 
hour  when  a  word  of  love,  of  understanding,  which  meant 
forgiveness,  would  have  saved  him,  she  had  put  him  from 
her.  She  had  lived  on  her  own  little  vanities  without 
thought  of  the  man's  torture.  She  had  failed  him  then. 
She  had  failed  him  to-day. 


394  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

"A  man  doesn't  try  to  kill  himself  for  a  woman  he 
doesn't  want." 

She  strode  on,  her  cheeks  burning.  All  that  of  ex- 
travagance which  he  had  done  this  past  year  had  been 
for  her  sake.  For  all  wrong  he  had  done  her,  he  had 
sought  the  final  expiation  in  death.  She  had  failed  him 
again  in  this  supreme  crisis.  She  had  whined  to  Myra 
that  he  no  longer  loved  her.  And  she  had  not  given  him 
— that  which  even  Myra  was  waiting  for — a  sign  and  a 
token. 

She  was  going  to  him,  nearing  him.  Already  she  en- 
tered the  straggling  end  of  Fanstead.  How  would  he 
receive  her?  If  he  cast  her  off,  she  would  perish  in  self- 
contempt.  She  went  on.  An  unsuspecting  Mrs.  Petti- 
land  had  told  her,  in  answer  to  a  question  which  she 
strove  to  keep  casual,  the  whereabouts  of  the  Quantock 
Garage.  The  sign  above  an  open  gateway  broke  sud- 
denly on  her  vision.  She  entered  a  silent  courtyard. 
A  light  was  burning  in  a  loft  above  a  closed  garage,  and 
a  wooden  flight  of  steps  ran  up  to  it.  The  door  was  open 
and  on  the  threshold  sat  a  man,  his  feet  on  the  top  stair, 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  She  advanced,  her  heart 
in  her  mouth. 

The  moon  shone  full  on  him.  She  uttered  a  little  whis- 
pering cry: 

"Alexis!" 

He  started  to  his  feet,  gazed  at  her  for  a  breathless 
second  and  scrambled  with  grotesque  speed  down  the 
rickety  staircase  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

She  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  loft,  furnished  with  pallet 
bed  and  camp  washing  apparatus,  a  wooden  chair,  a  table 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  395 

bearing  unsightly  remains  of  crust  and  cheese,  and  lit- 
tered with  books  in  corners  and  on  the  uncarpeted  floor. 
All  her  remorse  and  pity  and  love  gushed  over  him — 
over  the  misery  of  the  life  to  which  she  had  condemned 
him  by  her  littleness  of  soul  and  her  hardness  of  heart. 
She  did  not  spare  herself;  but  of  this  profanity  he  would 
hear  nothing.  She  had  come  to  him.  She  had  forgiven 
him.  The  Celestial  Hierarchy  would  be  darkened  by 
the  presence  of  one  so  radiantly  angelic. 

She  clutched  him  tight  to  her.  "Oh,  my  God,  if  you 
had  been  killed!" 

Exultant,  he  cried  in  his  old  way:  "Nothing  could 
kill  me,  for  I  was  born  for  your  love." 

They  talked  through  the  night  into  the  sweet-scented 
June  dawn.  They  would  face  the  world  fearlessly  to- 
gether. First  the  Onslow  and  Wedderburn  challenge 
to  be  taken  up.  She  would  stand  by  his  side  through  all 
the  obloquy.  That  was  the  newer  meaning  of  her  life. 
If  they  were  outcasts  what  did  it  matter?  They  could 
not  be  other  than  splendidly  outcast.  He  responded  in 
his  eager  way  to  her  enthusiasm.  Magna  est  veritas  et 
prcEvalebit.  With  never  a  shadow  between  them,  what 
ecstasy  would  be  existence. 

They  crept  downstairs  like  children  into  the  summer 
morning. 

But  as  they  had  planned  so  did  it  not  turn  out.  Row- 
ington  gave  news  that  Onslow  and  Wedderburn  had  drop- 
ped the  question.  Why  revive  dead  controversy?  But 
Triona  and  Olivia  insisted.  The  letter  on  the  origin  of 
Through  Blood  and  Snow,  signed  "John  Briggs"  appeared 
in  The  Times.  A  few  references  to  it  appeared  in  the. 


396  THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA 

next  weekly  Press.  But  that  was  all.  No  one  was 
interested.  Through  Blood  and  Snow  was  forgotten. 
The  events  of  1917  in  Russia  were  ancient  history. 
As  well  worry  over  fresh  scandals  concerning  Catherine 
the  Great.  What  did  the  reading  world  care  what  Alexis 
Triona's  real  name  was,  or  how  he  had  obtained  the  mate- 
rial for  his  brilliant  book? 

This  summary  of  the  effect  of  attempted  literary  and 
social  suicide  was  put  clearly  before  them  in  a  long  letter 
from  Rowington  a  month  or  so  afterwards. 

"But  we  want  another  novel  from  Alexis  Triona. 
When  are  we  going  to  get  it?" 

They  had  stayed  on  indefinitely  at  Pendish,  ostensibly 
awaiting  Myra's  complete  convalescence,  and  incidentally, 
as  they  told  themselves,  having  their  second  honeymoon. 
At  first  she  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would  resign  his 
post  at  the  Quantock  Garage. 

"I'm  not  going  to  begin  life  again  by  breaking  my 
word,"  said  he.  "I  promised  to  see  him  over  his  honey- 
moon." 

"That's  a  bit  mad  and  Quixotic,"  said  Olivia. 

"So's  all  that's  worth  having  in  life,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

So  she  had  settled  down  for  the  time  with  her  chauf- 
feur husband,  and  meanwhile  had  been  feeding  him  into 
health. 

They  read  the  letter  together. 

"It's  no  use,"  wrote  Rowington,  "to  start  again  under 
the  Briggs  name.  You've  told  the  world  that  Triona 
is  a  pseudonym.  Alexis  Triona  means  something.  John 
Briggs  doesn't." 

"He's  quite  right,"  said  Olivia. 

"As  you  will,"  he  said.    "I  give  in.    But  you  can't 


THE  TALE  OF  TRIONA  397 

say  I've  not  done  my  very  best  to  kill  Alexis  Triona." 

"And  you  can't.  Fate  again.  And — Alexis  dear — I 
never  knew  John  Briggs." 

They  were  in  the  sea-haunted  parlour.  After  a  while 
he  took  up  the  pink  conch-shell  and  fingered  it  lovingly. 
Then,  with  a  laugh,  he  put  it  to  her  ear. 

"What  does  it  say?" 

She  listened  a  while,  handed  him  back  the  shell  and 
looking  up  at  him  out  of  her  dark  eyes,  laughed  the  laugh 
of  deep  happiness. 

"I'll  go  with  you,  dear — to  any  South  Sea  Island  you 
like." 

"Will  you?"  he  cried.  "We'll  go.  And  I'll  write  a 
novel  full  of  the  beauty  of  God's  Universe  and  you." 

Myra  came  in  to  lay  the  luncheon  table.  Olivia  leaped 
up  and  threw  her  arms  around  the  thin  shoulders. 

"Myra  dear,  you'll  have  to  pack  up  quick.  We're 
going  to  Honolulu  to-morrow." 

"You  must  make  it  the  day  after,"  said  Myra.  "The 
laundry  doesn't  come  till  to-morrow  night." 


THE   END 


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